UC-NRLF 


B    3    3ME    Dflh 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Gl  FT    OF 


C/iss 


OF  THE  ITALIAN 
RENAI S  SANCE 


BOOK  OF  WORDS 


PRODUCED 

AT  THE  ART  INSTITUTE 
CHICAGO,  JANUARY  26  AND  27,  J909 

UNDER  THE  AUSPICES  OF 

THE  ANTIQUARIAN  SOCIETY 

OF  THE  ART  INSTITUTE 


COPYRIGHT  1909 

BY 

THE  SOCIETY  OF  THE  ANTIQUARIANS 

OF   THE 

ART  INSTITUTE 


ANTIQUARIAN  SOCIETY  OF  THE 
ART  INSTITUTE 

OFFICERS 

President    Mrs.  Martin  A.  Ryerson. 

Vice-President   Mrs.  Henry  Robbins. 

Secretary    Mrs.  Noble  B.  Judah. 

Treasurer   Miss  Nellie  Carpenter. 

RECEPTION  COMMITTEE 

Mesdames : — 

Benjamin  F.  Ayer. 
Edward  E.  Ayer. 
Samuel  E.  Barrett. 
Henry  Blair. 
Watson  Blair. 
Isabelle  F.  Blackstone. 
Ralph  Clarkson. 
Stanley  Field. 
John  J.  Glessner. 
Charles  L.  Hutchinson. 
Harry  Pratt  Judson. 
Bryan  Lathrop. 
Harold  McCormick. 
Alexander  F.  Stevenson. 
Lorado  Taft. 
Moses  J.  Wentworth. 


179798 


THE   FOLLOWING    ARE   THE    COMMITTEES 

FOR  THE  PAGEANT  OF  THE  ITALIAN 

RENAISSANCE 

Author  and  Director  ...........      Thomas  Wood  Stevens. 

Assistant  Director  .............      Dudley  C.  Watson. 

Musical  Director  ...............      Frank  E.  Barry. 

Executive  Director  .............      Ralph  Holmes. 

Treasurer   .....................      W.  F.  Tuttle. 

Historian  ......................      Mary  Van  Home. 

Scenic  Setting  .................      Allen  Philbrick. 

Publisher  ......................      Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour 

Director  of  Costuming  .........       Caroline  D.  Wade. 

Costume  Executor  .............      Julia  O'Brien. 

Property  Manager  .............      Harry  L.  Gage. 

Lighting    ......................      Stacey  Philbrick. 

Decorative   Setting  .............      Frederick  C.  Walton. 

(  Martin  Thon. 
Stage  Trappings  ...............  J  Timothy  McCue. 

(  John  Pirard. 
Advisory  Council  ..............   j  W.  M.  R.  French. 

(  N.  H.  Carpenter. 
Seating  Arrangements   .........   \  Thomas  E.  Tallmadge. 

(  Grace  Williams. 
Publicity  Manager  .............      Richard  F.  Babcock. 

'Allen  Philbrick. 


Chicago  Society  of  Artists 


Art  Students'  League 


Anna  Stacey. 
Pauline  Palmer. 
Alfred  Juergens. 
C.  F.  Browne. 
Ralph  Clarkson. 
Lucy  Hartrath. 
Edgar  Cameron. 
Bessie  P.  Lacey. 
Edna  Crampton. 

' 


C.  Bertram  Hartman. 
Enoch  Vognild. 

Palette  and  Chisel  Club  .........    \  *r*d  Bertch. 

1  Wilson  Irvine. 

'  Henry  Thiede. 
Alumni  Association  of  Decorative     £n^  MacDona] 

Designers  ...................  J  £re?e™k  C*  Walton- 

1  Essie  Myers. 

I  Bessie  Bennett. 


Men's  Life  Class  Association . 

Evening  School,  Art  Institute 
School  of  Decorative  Design. 


Normal  Department 


School  of  Architecture 

Ceramic  Department,   Art   Insti 
tute  . 


Atlan  Club 

Robertson  Players 


(  Frank  Dillon. 

•j  Chas.  Mullen. 

'  Geo.  Weisenberg. 

(  Chas.  Scheffler. 

•j  Antonin  Sterba. 

( Johanna  S.  Alexander. 

j  Florence  Cohen. 

(.Lucille  Comley. 

Grace  Conard. 

Laura  Van  Pappelendam. 

Lillian  Mathias. 

S.  Jourdan. 

Esther  Olmstead. 

Flora  M.  Shrader. 

Walter  Shattuck. 

Evelyn  Beachey. 
Mrs.  A.  Barothy. 
Mrs.  Le  Roy  Steward, 
Mrs.  E.  S.  Humphrey. 
Donald  Robertson. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE 

The  Herald  of  the  Pageant Donald  Robertson. 

Giotto    Jessie  Arms. 

Cimabue   Enoch  Vognild. 

Margaritone   Harry  F.  Winebrenner. 

Dante    Dudley  C.  Watson. 

Beatrice  Portinari Margaret  Hittle. 

Piccarda  Donati  Gertrude  Spaller. 

Signora  Donati Clare  Stadeker. 

Mosca    Fred  V.  Sampson. 

Lambertuccio   Charles  Mullen. 

Oderigo  Geo.  Weisenberg. 

Sciatta   , Oscar  Yampolsky. 

Buondelmonte  Frank  Dillon. 

Petrarch    Arthur  Deering. 

Boccaccio   Ralph  Bradley. 

Fiametta   Alice  John. 

'  Burleigh  Withers. 

Maurice  Gunn. 

Marie  Lockwood. 

Grace  Bradshaw. 

The    Group    of   the    Decamerone  J  Harriett  Keene. 
Prologue    I  Alma  Hewes. 

Matie  Akeley.  \ 

Ethel  Moore. 

Helen  Goodrich. 
I  Alice  John. 

Fra  Angelico Harry  L.  Gage. 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi Fred.  J.  Cowley. 

A  Prior Howard  R.  Weld. 

Lurezia  Buti   Edith  Emerson. 

A  Nun lone  Dovey. 

A  Prioress   Belle  Kinney. 

Domenico  De  Veneziano Arthur  Bowen. 

Andrea  Dal  Castagno Caroll  Kelly. 


Leonardo  Da  Vinci  Jane  Heap. 

Verrochio    Chas.  Scheffler. 

A  Bird  Seller Harry  Bailey. 

Lorenzo  De  Medici John  Bowers. 

Giuliano  De  Medici Frank  Hardin. 

Poliziano    Vida  Sutton. 

Botticelli    William  Owen. 

Simonetta  Vespucci Anna  Titus. 

Savonaralo   Rockaway. 

Ghirlandajo  Margraff. 

Michael  Angelo,  as  a  youth Katherine  Maxey. 

Piero  Di  Cosimo Ralph  Holmes. 

Andrea  Del  Sarto  as  a  youth Irma  Kohn. 

A  Bride   Lucille  Comley. 

A  Groom C.  A.  Reid. 

The  Bride's  Father J.  Manne. 

The  Groom's  Father John  P.  Jackson. 

The  Bride's  Mother Florence  Cohen. 

Lorenzo  Di  Credi C.  Bertram  Hartman. 

Bernardetto  De  Medici Ralph  Pearson. 

A  Dancer   Virginia  Brooks. 

Rafael    Ronald  Hargrave. 

Cellini    Chas.  Mulligan. 

Michael  Angelo Albert  Sterner. 

Pope  Julius Richard  F.  Babcock. 

Titian   Oliver  Dennett  Grover. 

Tintoretto   Chas.  Francis  Browne. 

Paolo  Veronese  as  a  youth Allen  Philbrick. 

Don  Diego  de  Mendoza Ralph  Clarkson. 

Duke  of  Mantua Chas.  Boutwood. 

Delia  Casa  Geo.  Schultz. 

Pietro  Aretino  Adam  Emery  Albright. 

Giovanni  Verdezotti  F.  De  Forrest  Schook. 

Vittoria  Colonna    Miss  Marion  Redlich. 

Cardinal  Farnese Alfred  Juergens. 

Doge  of  Venice John  F.  Stacey. 

Vasari    Chester  Brown. 

Bramante    R.  H.  Salisbury. 

A  Girl  Friend  of  the  Bride Mrs.  Ralph  Holmes. 

Giovanni  Tournabuoni   Ralph  Harris. 

Jacopo  L'Indaco Jo  Gibson  Martin. 

Monica Laura  H.  Watson. 

Cosa    Claire  Sutherland. 

A  Prioress   Miss  Elsie  Earle. 

A  Nun   Kathleen  Connery. 


A  PAGEANT  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 

THE  ARGUMENT 

HE  HERALD  ENTERS;  HE  AN 
NOUNCES  THE  TIME  AND  THE 
SCENE— FLORENCE,  IN  THE  LATE 
THIRTEENTH  CENTURY;  SPEAKS 
OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  FLORENCE, 
AND  OF  HER  GLORY;  ANNOUNCES 
THE  TRIUMPH  OF  CIMABUE'S  MA 
DONNA;  AND  FORETELLS  THE 
TRAGEDY  OF  BUONDELMONTE'S 
DEATH.  . 

The  procession  of  Cimabue's  Madonna  enters,  bearing  the 
picture  aloft  amid  great  rejoicing.     Cimabue,  clad  in  white  fes- 


tal  garments,  walks  with  King  Charles  of  Anjou,  and  is  fol 
lowed  by  the  Priors  of  Florence,  among  them  Dante,  and  by 
the  artists  Memmi  and  Taddeo  Gaddi.  The  Herald  watches 
the  passing  of  the  procession  into  the  church. 

Giotto  enters,  attired  as  a  shepherd,  and  carrying  a  green 
staff.  He  inquires  for  Cimabue,  and  the  Herald  tells  him  the 
master  is  coming;  the  Herald  then  goes  on  into  the  church. 
Cimabue  comes  out,  wondering  at  his  triumph ;  he  meets  Giot 
to  and  welcomes  him  into  his  service.  Margaritone  appears  as 
an  old  man;  he  laments  the  passing  of  the  Byzantine  school, 
and  predicts  that  painting  shall  be  a  curse  to  Florence;  which 
Cimabue  disputes,  foretelling  the  greatness  of  Giotto's  future 
fame. 

Dante  enters,  meets  Giotto,  and  speaks  with  him  and  Cim 
abue;  the  three  then  follow  Beatrice  Portinari  into  the  church. 

Men  of  the  Uberti  and  Amedei  enter — Mosca  the  One- 
Eyed,  Sciatta,  Lambertuccio,  Oderigo,  and  others;  they  con 
ceal  themselves  in  ambush  to  wait  for  Buondelmonte.  Pic- 
carda  Donati  and  her  mother  also  await  Buondelmonte  on  the 
steps.  He  comes,  is  attacked  and  slain,  and  a  battle  between 
the  Uberti  and  the  Donati  ensues.  Night  falls  while  Piccarda 
is  weeping  for  the  slain  Buondelmonte,  as  the  tumult  is  quelled 
by  Dante. 

The  lights  come  on,  and  the  place  is  empty;  the  Herald 
again  speaks,  telling  of  the  passing  of  sixty  years,  of  the  great 
plague  that  has  fallen  upon  the  city,  and  of  the  coming  of  Boc 
caccio  and  Petrarch. 

The  procession  of  the  Brothers  of  the  Misericordia  comes 
out  of  the  church;  at  their  passing  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio 
speak  together,  and  with  Fiametta.  With  the  Ten  of  the  De- 
camerone,  Boccaccio  goes  out  to  Fiesole,  leaving  Petrarch  to 
take  his  way  to  Avignon.  The  scene  changes  to  Fiesole,  and 
the  Ten  dance. 

The  Herald  enters,  and  speaks  of  the  New  Learning,  of 
the  wars  that  have  rent  Italy  in  the  intervening  century,  and 
of  the  sculptors,  Donatello,  Brunelleschi,  and  Ghiberti,  who 
have  adorned  Florence. 

Fra  Angelico  enters  with  Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  Lippi  speak 
ing  of  the  art  of  Massaccio,  Angelico  of  his  own  illuminations. 
An  ecclesiastical  procession  enters,  bringing  Angelico's  ap 
pointment  as  archbishop  of  Florence;  he  refers  the  matter  to 
his  prior,  refusing  the  appointment.  Lippi  goes  off  wondering 
at  the  simplicity  of  the  man.  The  Herald  appears,  and  the 
scene  changes  back  to  Florence. 

10 


The  curtain  withdrawn  discloses  Lippi  painting  for  the 
nuns,  the  tableau  of  the  picture  before  him;  night  closes  in, 
and  Lippi  persuades  the  novice,  Lucrezia,  who  was  posing  for 
the  madonna,  to  run  off  with  him ;  the  prioress,  coming  to  look 
for  her,  finds  the  picture  but  no  model. 

Enter  Bernardetto  de  Medici  and  Andrea  dal  Castagno. 
The  secret  of  Antonello  de  Messina.  The  murder  of  Domeni- 
co;  the  guard  comes  and  finds  Andrea  wailing  over  his  dead 
friend. 

The  day  gradually  comes  up,  and  the  scene  discloses  a 
street  in  Florence  on  a  market  day.  Lionardo  da  Vinci  enters, 
followed  by  Verrochio,  who  vows  he  will  paint  no  more  since 
he  has  seen  Lionardo's  angels.  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  crosses 
the  stage  with  his  train,  setting  out  for  Fiesole. 

The  scene  again  changes  to  Fiesole,  Lorenzo  and  Giuliano 
holding  a  court  of  love.  Botticelli  and  Simonetta. 

The  Herald.  Florence  again.  Savonarola  enters,  fol 
lowed  by  Botticelli  and  others ;  he  inveighs  against  the  Medici. 
Lorenzo  appears,  saying  he  is  near  to  death,  and  demanding 
that  Savonarola  come  to  give  him  absolution.  The  Fra  makes 
his  three  conditions.  The  procession  of  young  men,  and  the 
burning  of  the  Vanities. 

A  scene  in  the  shop  of  Ghirlandajo,  the  Garland  Maker. 
A  wedding  party  comes  in,  ordering  the  various  equipment 
which  the  artist  can  provide ;  and  being  served  by  Michael  An- 
gelo  as  a  boy;  also  by  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  the  pupils  of 
Piero  de  Cosimo ;  the  haggling  over  the  gifts ;  the  bridal  party 
goes  out,  and  a  messenger  comes  in  for  Michael  Angelo  calling 
him  to  the  house  of  the  Medici;  his  parting  with  Ghirlandajo. 

The  Herald  speaks  of  the  discovery  of  America,  of  the 
death  of  Lorenzo  and  the  like. 

The  Herald  comes  on,  and  his  speaking  is  followed  by  a 
dance  which  symbolizes  the  Renaissance.  After  this  the  scene 
changes  to  Rome. 

Then  Michael  Angelo,  Pope  Julius,  Rafael,  Bramante,  and 
others  appear,  the  Pope  visiting  Michael  Angelo. 

After  this,  a  pageant  of  Venice  in  its  glory ;  Titian,  about 
to  set  out  for  Rome,  receives  the  farewells  of  his  townsfolk, 
and  greetings  from  the  Emperor,  Francis  the  First,  and  other 
great  ones  of  earth. 

Titian  and  Michael  Angelo — the  two  old  men,  about  whom 

11 


the  art  of  the  world  goes  down.     And  at  the  last  the  supreme 
wisdom  of  Buonarroti. 

NOTE — The  scenes  of  the  pageant  represent,  in  a  com 
posite  fashion,  Florence,  Fiesole,  Rome  and  Venice ;  but  as  the 
action  may  be  imagined  to  take  place  in  various  parts  of  each 
city,  it  has  been  thought  proper  to  omit  all  mention  of  the  spe 
cial  place  of  each  scene.  Thus,  the  arch  represents  a  square 
in  Florence,  and  all  the  Florentine  incidents  take  place  in  the 
same  setting.  For  a  similar  convenience,  and  to  avoid  a  mul 
tiplicity  of  separate  scenes,  episodes  are  sometimes  conven 
tionally  represented  as  happening  in  one  day,  when  their  actual 
occurrence  may  have  covered  a  considerable  period.  The  main 
chronology  of  the  pageant  is  strictly  historical. 

Many  of  the  incidents  are,  of  course,  purely  imaginary,  be 
ing  based  on  traditional  rather  than  historical  authority.  For 
the  bulk  of  the  work,  Vasari's  Lives  will  furnish  the  material; 
some  of  the  chronicle  histories  have  also  been  drawn  upon,  the 
Buondelmonte  episode  being  taken  from  Machiavelli.  Sym- 
ond's  history  of  the  period  has,  of  course,  been  invaluable ;  and 
Cellini's  Autobiography  has  been  a  suggestive  aid  in  some  of 
the  lighter  scenes.  The  episode  of  Botticelli  and  Simonetta  is 
founded  upon  Maurice  Hewlett's  delightful  story,  "Quattro- 
centisteria" ;  and  the  scene  before  Ghirlandajo's  Shop  was  sug 
gested  by  the  Blashfields'  intimate  essay,  "The  Florentine  Ar 
tist."  Numerous  other  works  have  been  consulted,  but  the 
effort  has  been  to  make  the  pageant  eloquent  of  the  spirit  and 
tradition  of  the  Renaissance,  rather  than  faithful  to  the  letter 
of  the  more  modern  and  less  picturesque  historians. 


12 


A  PAGEANT  OF  THE 

ITALIAN 

RENAISSANCE 


A  PAGEANT  OF  THE 
ITALIAN  RENAISSANCE 


j^^^SET  7Z<t**i*&Si 


SCENE  I 
THE  HERALD  OF  THE  PAGEANT 


IME,  WHO  DOTH  BIND  MEN  WITH 
HIS  CHAIN  OF  YEARS, 
FATE,     WHO    DOTH    MAKE    ALL 
LIFE  TO  BLOOM  AND  CLOSE, 
DEATH,  WHO    DOTH    REAP    FOR 
TIME  AND  FATE:  THESE  THREE 
WAGE  WAR  AGAINST  THE  STAR 
RY  CROWN  OF  SONG, 
AND    STAND    IN    DREADED 


leaguer,  with  drawn  swords, 

Before  the  garden  where  the  Rose  of  Art, 

Like  a  blown  flame,  hath  being  and  delight. 


But  here,  behold,  a  miracle;  Time  sleeps; 

Fate  nods;  and  Death  hath  had  his  will.     To-night, 

The  centuries,  like  pages  of  a  book, 

Turn  backward,  and  the  Rose  of  Art  doth  breathe, 

With  a  new  perfume,  springtides  long  forgot. 

Behold,  the  world  awakes  again  from  sleep, 

And  the  long  darkness  of  the  middle  age 

Doth  break  and  flee  before  the  coming  dawn. 

Here  tread  we  now  the  paths  that  Dante  knew 

In  Florence ;  the  Novella  Church  is  this, 

And  these  six  hundred  years  of  war  and  song, 

Six  hundred  years  of  glory  and  of  shame, 

Are  all  to  be  as  they  had  never  been, 

All  magically  blotted  out;  and  here 

We  see  as  in  a  darkened  glass  the  town — 

The  Lily  Town  of  Florence  in  the  spring. 

Behold,  Our  City !     From  Imperial  Rome 

And  proud  Fiesole  she  takes  descent, 

And  strife  was  in  her  blood  ere  she  was  born; 

Strife,  and  the  seed  of  an  immortal  flower 

Blown  here  amid  the  quickening  mists  of  war, 

The  flower  of  art  that  withers  not  nor  fades. 

And  ere  the  sun  of  this  one  day  go  down 

The  first  unfading  petal  shall  unfold, 

And  the  first  messenger  from  the  high  hills 

Shall  come  to  seek  the  garden  of  delight. 

[Trumpets  heard  far  off,   blowing 

joyously. 

The  trumpets  sound.    The  royal  banners  wave; 
The  guest  of  Florence  walks  in  festival. 
And  from  his  house  beyond  the  walls  they  bring 
Our  Cimabue's  first  Madonna  home. 

[The  trumpets  nearer. 
The  city  cries  aloud  for  solemn  joy, 
Along  the  streets  the  blessed  folk  do  kneel, 
And  weep  with  wonder  as  the  picture  passes. 
But  my  foreseeing  heart  doth  leap  with  dread, 
For  this  day  yet  another  burden  hath, 
And  deadly  feuds  are  folded  in  its  hours, 
For  this  day  Buondelmonte  to  his  bride 
Comes  home,  and  by  the  dark  Siena  gate 
Hatred  in  scarlet  mask  doth  wait  for  him. 
Ah,  Florence !     Beauty  luring  Hope  to  death ! 
City  of  Lilies !     Art,  and  Love  and  Song — 


Giotto,  Buondelmonte,  Dante:     Time 

Before  these  three  shall  stay  his  pitiless  hand, 

[The  trumpets  sound  nearer,  and  the 
procession  enters,  passing  into  the 
church,  Cimabue  walking  with 
Charles  of  Anjou.  The  Herald 
keeps  his  place  beside  the  entrance. 
Following  the  procession  comes 
Giotto  attired  as  a  shepherd  boy, 
bearing  a  green  staff. 

GIOTTO 

I  seek  for  Cimabue. 

HERALD 
Lad,  thy  name. 

GIOTTO 

Giotto  Bondone.     Is  the  master  there? 
HERALD  (Passing  into  the  church) 

He  comes. 

[Enter  Cimabue,  from  the  church. 
Giotto  starts  at  the   sight  of  him, 
not  having  recognized  the  traveler 
of  the   day  before  as  the   honored 
figure  of  the  procession. 

CIMABUE 

[Speaking  as  one  in  vision. 
How  like  a  conqueror  home  from  war 
I  walk  to-day;  kings  bear  me  company; 
I  hear  men  speak ;  I  see  the  festival, 
But  as  one  dreaming.     What  is  this  I  do, 
That  kings  should  condescend,  the  people  praise? 
I  have  but  wrought  as  best  I  knew,  and  men, 
Seeing  I  strive  to  make  Our  Lady  live 
Pardon  the  wrong  I  do  Her  holy  face, 
And  praise  me  for  it.     But  the  vision  flies. 

GIOTTO 

[Kneeling  beside  him. 

Forgive  me,  master.     I  have  come.     Forgive. 
I  did  not  know,  up  there  along  the  hills, 
That  thou  wert  lord  of  Florence. 

CIMABUE 

I  am  not  lord  of  Florence.     (Sees  Giotto.)     Ha,  the  lad 
I  found  among  his  flocks.    A  welcome,  boy. 

1C 


GIOTTO 

My  father  bade  me  come.    He  gives  me  to  thee. 

CIMABUE 
Gives  thee? 

GIOTTO 
Master,  to  mould  as  thou  dost  choose. 

CIMABUE 

I  take  thee,  lad,  and  by  Our  Lady's  help, 
And  by  the  favor  of  Saint  Luke,  I'll  strive 
That  thou  shalt  be  a  master  in  thy  time. 

[Enter  Margaritone,  as  an  old  man, 

MARGARITONE 

Ah,  Cimabue,  what  new  thing  is  this? 
The  people  clamour  of  a  miracle, 
And  say  that  thou  hast  painted  it. 

CIMABUE 

No  miracle,  my  master,  but  a  thing 
I  know  too  well  to  praise.    Yet  it  is  new. 

MARGARITONE 

I  ask  no  more.    The  light  from  mine  old  eyes 

Fails  fast,  and  I  shall  soon  be  dark ;  and  yet 

Too  well  I  see  the  strange  new  thing  ye  do, 

The  tinseled  trifles  made  to  stand  instead 

Of  all  the  rich  mosaics  we  have  wrought, 

Faithfully,  piece  by  piece,  full  count, 

And  circling  golden  round  the  heads  of  saints, 

Eternal  from  the  great  Byzantine  source, 

Held  in  traditions  that  Saint  Luke  himself 

Framed  while  the  Caesars  still  were  throned  in  Rome. 

And  this  new  thing  ye  do — this  painted  thing, 

Shall  prove  a  curse  to  Florence,  and  to  Art 

A  final  doom  and  black  forgetfulness. 

CIMABUE 

Margaritone,  when  I  came  to  thee, 
I  took  thy  words,  and  humbly  honored  them; 
Thou  knowest  I  am  humble  still  in  heart. 
But  this  new,  wondrous  thing  shall  not  drag  down 
The  high  tradition  of  our  holy  Saint, 
But  raise  it  to  a  height  we  dare  not  dream. 

17 


Thy  day  is  past.  Mine  passes.  But  one  comes 
Who  shall  be  greater  than  we  twain  have  been. 
A  dawn-fire  burns  among  us. 

[Margaritone   shrinks   away  from   him. 

[Dante  enters  from  the  church. 

GIOTTO   [Seeing  Dante. 
What  man  is  that? 

CIMABUE 
Dante  Alighieri.    What  of  him? 

GIOTTO 

I  never  saw  before  a  face  so  sad 
Master,  when  I  have  learned  thine  art,  may  I 
Draw  him? 

CIMABUE 
If  so  he  please  to  sit  for  thee. 

GIOTTO 
I  shall  not  need  him  then.    I'll  not  forget. 

DANTE 

I  wonder,  Cimabue,  while  the  town 
Throngs  to  thy  picture,  thou  shouldst  walk  aside, 
And  while  the  king  of  Anjou  and  his  peers 
Applaud  thee,  thou  shouldst  seek  a  shepherd  lad 
And  here  hold  converse  in  the  street.     Men  say 
This  quarter  shall  be  named  anew  for  thee — 
Borgo  Allegri — Street  of  Joy. 

CIMABUE 
Signore, 

This  lad  is  no  mere  shepherd.    He  is  one 
Who  shall  surpass  me,  when  his  art  is  ripe. 
Giotto,  Signore  Dante  shall  be  friend  to  thee. 

DANTE 
I  can  deny  thee  nothing. 

GIOTTO 

[Eagerly, 

Tell  men  then,  Signore, 

What  brings  the  mighty  sorrow  to  thy  face, 
And  makes  it  seem  like  thunder,  and  deep  grief, 
And  winds  that  weep  along  the  hills  at  night. 
I — pardon  me,  Signore — I  presume — 

18 


DANTE 
Is  it  so  plainly  writ,  then,  in  my  look? 

GIOTTO 

I  have  no  skill  in  reading,  sir.    But  thou 

Dost  somehow  move  me  strangely.    I  am  young 

And  had  not  known  such  things;  a  lamb  that's  lost, 

And  little  sorrows,  such  as  shepherds  know, 

And  songs  that  make  one  laugh  and  weep  at  once — 

These  only  have  I  known.    But  thou  dost  weep 

Down  in  thy  soul,  as  for  a  world  aflame. 

DANTE 

And  what  if  that  be  so?    There  is  a  world — 
Boy,  let  it  pass.    I  think  on  Florence.    Here 
Is  cause  enough  for  grief.    And  on  our  world- 
Can  I  find  joy  in  this?     But  most  of  all 
On  the  strange  fate  of  my  awakened  soul 
That  may  not  sleep  again ;  and  on  the  love 
That  did  arouse  me — fill  me  with  great  light 
Dim  songs  and  echoes  of  a  voice  divine, 
And  visions  and  desires  more  chaste  than  tears, 
And  the  new  life — 

[He  pauses,  as  Beatrice  Portinari  en 
ters;  she  passes  on  into  the  church, 
looking  straight  before  her.  Dante 
looks  after  her;  Giotto  goes  over  to 
him  and  touches  his  hand,  gently, 
and  Dante  grasps  the  boy's  hand 
eagerly.  Together,  following  Cima- 
bue,  they  also  pass  into  the  church, 
Dante  hesitating,  and  Giotto  leading 
him  on. 

[As  they  go  off,  men  of  the  Uberti 
enter,  armed,  and  conceal  themselves 
behind  the  statue  pedestal  and  along 
the  front  of  the  church.  Then  Pic- 
carda  Donati  enters,  with  her  moth 
er,  and  they  go  up  the  church  steps, 
loitering. 

PICCARDA 

Here,  mother,  pause  a  while. 
Here  Buondelmonte  said  that  he  would  come. 

19 


SIGNORA  DONATI 

Aye,  he  will  come,  for  he  hath  looked  on  thee. 
What  matter  if  the  child  of  the  Uberti  weep, 
She  is  not  fair  as  thou.    And  he  will  come, 
For  Buondelmonte,  if  I  read  him  right, 
Is  one  to  love,  and  win,  and  have  his  way. 

[Lights  go  down;  sunset  glow. 

PICCARDA 

And  yet  my  mother,  there  's  a  fear  that  stirs 
Deeper  than  all  the  marvel  of  my  joy. 
He  comes.    But  as  we  passed  along,  I  saw 
Dark  men  of  the  Uberti,  Amedei, 
And  such  as  hate  my  lord  and  all  his  house. 
Why  gather  they?    And  last  night  as  I  gazed 
Out  toward  Siena,  praying  for  my  lord, 
A  star  fell  red  from  Heaven.    Mother,  I  fear. 

SIGNORA  DONATI 
A  maid's  fear.    Be  thou  still.    He  comes. 

[Even  as  she  speaks,  Buondelmonte 
draws  near.  He  is  followed  by  two 
servants.  As  the  servants  pass  the 
statue,  men  of  the  Uberti  follow, 
touch  them  on  the  shoulder,  and  as 
they  turn,  stab  them;  one  of  the 
servants  falls;  the  other,  wounded, 
breaks  away,  crying,  "Buondelmonte 
— thy  foes."  Then  he  too  i  s  cut 
down.  Buondelmonte  turns  on  the 
step,  catching  Piccarda  in  his  arms. 
The  Uberti  move  forward,  deliber 
ately,  to  surround  him.  As  they  draw 
nearer,  Piccarda  returns  to  her  moth 
er,  and  Buondelmonte  draws  his 
sword,  shouting,  "Buondelmonti, 
your  swords !" 

[Even  as  he  speaks  the  Uberti  close 
in.  He  resists,  but  falls,  as  the  Buon 
delmonti  troop  out  of  the  church. 
The  fight  rages  around  the  church 
door ;  Buondelmonte  struggles  to  his 
feet,  and  fights  his  way  out,  at  the 
head  of  his  men,  dying  at  the  foot 


20 


of  the  statue.  There  is  a  pause.  Pic- 
carda  darts  out  from  the  doorway, 
and  throws  herself  down  by  the 
body.  The  lights  go  down;  Dante 
appears  in  the  doorway,  a  torch  in 
his  hand,  commanding  peace.  All 
the  lights  go  out,  except  Dante's 
torch;  for  a  moment  Piccarda  is 
heard,  sobbing.  Then  the  music 
takes  up  a  solemn  strain.  The  light 
appears  again,  and  the  stage  is  clear, 
save  for  the  Herald,  who  advances 
and  speaks. 


SCENE  II 
THE  HERALD 

RIEF  IS  THE  SPAN  OF  GLORY  AND 
OF  LIFE, 

AND    THE    SWIFT    YEARS,    LIKE 
SWALLOWS  IN  THE  AUTUMN, 
TAKE  FLIGHT    AND    PASS    WITH 
RUSHING  OF  KEEN  WINGS. 
THE     NIGHT     THAT       FELL     ON 
BUONDELMONTE'S  DOOM 
SYMBOLS       THE       PASSING       OF 
THREE  SCORE  OF  YEARS, 

And  this  returning  day  in  Florence  brings 

The  summer  of  deep  woe,  of  the  great  plague. 

Giotto  and  Dante — simple  and  august — 

These  mighty  twain  have  passed  beyond  the  tomb, 

And  Italy  hath  mourned  them;  but  the  grief 

For  their  exalted  souls  grows  pale,  and  Death 

Hooded  and  grey,  with  pestilential  step 

Doth  walk  our  streets,  and  man  and  maid  and  child 

He  touches  fatefully  with  unseen  hands, 

And  at  the  touch  they  die.     This  mortal  plague 

Hath  made  light-hearted  Florence  like  a  grave, 

And  filled  our  houses  where  the  music  swelled 

With  sorrow  and  with  lamentation. 

The  Brothers  of  the  Misericordia 

These  only  dare  to  lift  the  stricken  dead 

And  give  them  back  to  earth  disconsolate. 

The  dirge  of  their  dark  mercy  draweth  near ; 

And  after  them  doth  come  Boccaccio ; 

For  here  he  meets  the  daughter  of  a  king, 

Sicilian  Fiametta,  bloom  of  love. 

And  wise  Petrarca,  come  from  Avignon 


With  an  immortal  passion  in  his  soul 

That  day  by  day  drips  down  in  golden  song. 

The  picture  changes,  and  the  morning  wind 

Blows  on  the  hill  top  of  Fiesole. 

[A  dirge  is  heard,  and  the  Brothers 
of  the  Misericordia  appear  in  pro 
cession,  coming  out  of  the  church. 
Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  enter  as  the 
procession  passes. 

PETRARCH 

What  men  are  these?    The  city  swoons  with  death, 
And  everywhere  I  meet  these  masks  at  work. 

BOCCACCIO 

They  are  the  few  who  dare  to  love  mankind, 

The  few  who  serve  the  desperate  need  of  Florence. 

And  some  of  these  in  masks  are  princes ;  some 

Are  men  of  little  worth.    This  holy  toil 

They  share.    We  call  them  Misericordia. 

PETRARCH 
Great  hearts  are  these,  in  direful  occupation. 

[As  he  speaks,  the  last  of  the  proces 
sion  pass  off. 

BOCCACCIO 

I,  too,  have  served  my  turn.     But  here  I  wait 
For  certain  ladies,  merry  friends  of  mine, 
And  others — gentlemen  of  Florence ;  we — 
Having  well  served  the  city  and  gone  free — 
Plan  to  fare  forth — up  to  Fiesole, 
And  there  in  entertainment  pass  some  days. 
Wilt  thou  not  come,  my  Petrarch? 

[Enter,  Fiametta,  as  he  speaks. 

FIAMETTA 
Nay,  not  so  cold — 

Messer  Francesco  surely  goes  with  us. 
How  shall  we  learn,  we  folk  of  baser  strain, 
The  ancient  high  philosophy  he  sings? 
What  shall  we  know  of  Vergil,  or  of  Troy, 
Or  of  Queen  Helen  and  Odysseus, 
And  how  she  gave  him  a  great  clew  of  silk 
To  guide  him  to  the  monster;  and  how  Greece 
In  the  Republic's  time,  kept  Caesar  out? 
What  shall  we  learn,  if  Messer  Petrarch  sulk, 

23 


Like  the  great  Hector,  in  his  tent  at  home? 
I  warn  thee,  sir,  our  tales  will  all  be  told 
About  light  matters,  love,  and  pleasantries, 
And  all  the  telling  will  not  mend  one  jot 
The  lamentable  ignorance  of  the  world. 
But  if  thou  comest,  we  shall  all  grow  wise. 

PETRARCH 

Wiser  and  sadder,  lady.     For  I,  too, 
Have  thought  and  sung  on  love,  but  not  so  light 
As  thou  dost  hold  it. 

FIAMETTA 
Lightly  do  I  then 
Hold  love — that  is  the  sum  of  my  desire. 

PETRARCH 

Lightly,  for  thou  dost  touch  thy  bliss. 

BOCCACCIO 

Petrarch, 

Thou  art  a  prayer,  and  not  a  man  at  all, 
Lifting  thy  love  unto  a  cold  white  star 
While  we  do  walk  in  lanes  where  roses  lean 
And  life's  as  warm  and  free  and  musical 
As  was  the  old  Corinthian  ecstacy. 
Horace,  and  Vergil,  and  the  Greeks  we  love- 
Have  they  not  sung  of  beauty  and  delight? 

PETRARCH 

Aye,  sung — and  so  have  I,  Boccaccio. 

[Looking  at  the  locket  he  wears. 

FIAMETTA 
What  hast  thou  there? 

PETRARCH 
A  picture  that  Simone 
In  Avignon  hath  painted. 

FIAMETTA 
Let  me  look. 

PETRARCH 

[Concealing  the  locket  as  she  looks 

at  it. 
Forgive  me,  lady — this  is  not  for  laughter. 

FIAMETTA 
A  face  I  saw — a  lady  with  deep  eyes. 

24 


PETRARCH 

Silence.     I  will  not  have  thee  mock  at  it. 

FIAMETTA 

I  mock  at  love !     Nay,  nor  at  learning  neither, 
Boccacce  hath  such  joy  in  ancient  books. 
That  thou  dost  love  a  maid  in  Avignon 
Bringeth  thee  nearer  to  my  wayward  heart 
Than  all  the  epics,  Greek  and  Latin  script 
Thou  hast  recovered  from  the  night  of  time. 

PETRARCH 
A  lady — Princess — back  in  Avignon. 

FIAMETTA 
A  lady?— 

BOCCACCIO 
Fiametta,  press  him  not. 
He  hath  no  cold  words  for  this  inward  fire. 

FIAMETTA 
And  hath  he  made  no  songs  for  her? 

BOCCACCIO 
Such  songs 

As  only  once  in  the  deep  heart  of  man 
Love  and  his  sorrow  hath  made  audible. 

FIAMETTA 

Signore,  I'll  not  be  denied.  If  this 
Be  some  great  deathless  love  that  breathes  in  song 
Like  that  Achilles  bore  Hyppolyta, 
Or  Jason  burned  for  Ariadne  with — 
(Thou  seest,  Boccacce,  my  learning  grows  apace,) 
I'll  have  thee  sing,  and  on  the  wings  of  it, 
We  all  shall  drift  up  to  Fiesole. 

[A  song  is  heard. 
What  song  is  that? 

BOCCACCIO 

'Tis  Petrarch's  song,  for  her 
In  Avignon. 

[A  girl  enters,  singing. 

[Petrarch  sings.  The  others  of  the 
Ten  come  out  and  group  themselves 
around  Boccaccio  and  Fiametta.  As 
the  song  closes,  they  all  rise  and 
pass  off  stage,  leaving  Petrarch,  and 
singing  the  refrain  of  his  song.  Fi- 

25 


ametta,  going  last,  runs  back  to 
Petrarch,  gives  him  a  flower  from 
her  hair,  and  follows  the  rest. 

PETRARCH'S  SONG. 

A  glove  from  thy  white  hand,  O  queen, 

I  found,  and  that  was  destiny. 
A  glove  from  thy  white  hand,  O  queen, 

I  stole,  and  by  the  flowery  lea 
I  bore  my  prize,  and  in  my  heart 

The  perfume  of  it  breathed  a  flame 
And  lo !  I  sang,  until  mine  art 

Aroused  my  soul  unto  my  shame. 

The  glove  from  thy  white  hand,  my  fair — 

I  could  not  keep,  I  could  not  give ; 
The  glove  from  thy  white  hand,  my  fair — 

I  sent  it  back,  and  now  I  live 
In  honour  shorn  of  all  delight. 

And  thoughts  of  thee,  and  of  the  glove 
They  bring  me  through  the  lonely  night 

These  fiery  songs  of  grief  and  love. 

The  glove  from  thy  white  hand,  O  queen, 

It  tangled  in  my  heart  strings  there ; 
The  glove  from  thy  white  hand,  O  queen, 

I  gave  thee  back,  and  now  I  dare 
To  face  the  days  that  follow  me, 

But  though  my  songs  with  praises  glow, 
The  songs  I  make  can  never  be 

A  solace  to  this  golden  woe. 

[The  scene  changes  to  Fiesole,  and 
the  Ten  dance. 


INTERMISSION 
SCENE  III 

[Enter   the   Herald 
THE  HERALD 


AN- 


But 
And 


HE  MIGHTY  POETS    OF    THE 
TIQUE  WORLD, 

THE  SAGES   AND  THE   ORATORS, 
ALL  WERE  FORGOT, 
AND     ONLY     THINGS     OF     HOLY 
FAME,  AND  DEEDS 
THRICE     LETTERED     IN    TRADI 
TIONS  OF  THE  CHURCH, 
CAME       TO       US       FROM       THAT 
BRIGHT  ANTIQUITY. 

Petrarch  caught  some  faintly  echoed  strain, 

made  it  live  again  in  scholar's  hearts; 


Boccaccio,  wise  amid  his  amorous  mirth, 

Proclaimed  the  grace  of  Grecian  song,  and  spoke, 

When  he  so  willed,  with  high  Latinity. 

And  these  two  have  aroused  an  endless  train 

Of  thirsty  souls  that  drink  the  classic  age. 

But  Art,  who  woke  with  Cimabue,  and  who  smiled 

For  a  brief  season  upon  Giotto's  fame — 

Art  sleeps  again.     And  all  through  Italy 

The  thunder  and  swift  lightning  of  the  wars 

Have  never  ceased.     And  so  a  hundred  years 

Pass  by,  and  men  who  in  the  Holy  Land 

Fought  out  the  perils  of  the  last  Crusade, 

Homeward  returning,  found  no  great  new  thing 

Save  as  the  perfume  of  Augustan  times 

Hath  breathed  into  the  books  of  Italy, 

And  the  old  learning  slowly  comes  to  light ; 

And  that  the  sculptors,  Donatello's  friends, 

Ghiberti,  Brunelleschi,  Delia  Robbia, 

Have  wrought,  in  Florence,  beauty  out  of  stone. 

But  here,  in  still  Fiesole,  the  seasons  creep 

Slowly  around  the  years,  and  no  change  comes. 

And  one,  a  holy  man,  Angelico, 

Here  prayerfully  doth  emulate  Saint  Luke, 

And  when  he  paints  a  crucifix,  he  weeps, 

And  when  a  saint  doth  smile  beneath  his  hand, 

A  rapture  fills  him,  and  immediate 

From  God  he  holds  the  blessed  stroke. 

Now  with  this  worthy  friar  another  comes, 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  careless  of  his  soul, 

And  filled  with  all  the  blithe  desires  of  earth. 

And  him,  since  he  is  bent  on  some  diverting  deed, 

We'll  follow,  and  it  please  you,  sirs,  to  Florence. 

[Exit  the  Herald. 

[Enter,    Fra    Angelico,    carrying    a 

book,  and  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  carrying 

a  branch  of  flowers. 

ANGELICO 

Say  what  thou  wilt,  I  can  not  alter  it ; 
The  thing  once  done,  is  done  by  Heaven's  will, 
And  what  are  we  to  change  it? 

LIPPI 
Ah,  but  how 
Are  we  to  know  what  Heaven's  will  may  be? 

28 


ANGELICO 

I  would  not  paint  a  Savior  but  with  prayer, 
And  then — I  know  it  must  be  done  aright. 

LIPPI 

I'm  not  so  sure ;  Massaccio,  now,  doth  paint, 
Youth  that  he  is,  more  wondrously  than  thou. 
And  yet  he  never  prays  before  he  works. 

ANGELICO 

Brother,  thine  are  perilous  words.     This  youth 
May  be  inspired  by  some  special  saint. 
Since,  as  thou  sayest,  he  excels  us  all. 

LIPPI 
Inspired  by  good  wine  and  women  more. 

ANGELICO 

Now  doth  some  evil  spirit  speak  in  thee. 
And  not  the  artist,  but  the  world's  desire 
Hath  utterance.     If  this  mine  art  be  good, 
It  must  be  so  because  the  Holy  Church 
In  its  high  purpose  under  God,  hath  use 
And  warrant  for  its  being.     For  myself, 
I  am  as  dust  along  the  trodden  way ; 
My  pictures,  brother,  wrought  with  patient  prayer, 
Must  testify  the  will  of  Heaven  shown 
Through  me.     I  serve  the  Church,  and  am  content. 

LIPPI 

I  serve  it  also,  when  the  pay  is  good. 

But  never  have  I  painted  half  so  ill 

As  after  absolution,  when  my  soul 

Is  clear  of  sin.     What  brothers  follow  us? 

[Enter  the  Prior,  with  a  procession 
of  people  and  monks. 

THE  PRIOR 

Angelico,  we  bring  thee  joyful  word 

Of  thy  preferment,  from  His  Holiness. 

Thou  are  to-day  in  Florence,  dubbed  Archbishop. 

ANGELICO 
I,  an  Archbishop? 

THE  PRIOR 
So  the  Pope's  decree 
But  now  delivered  unto  us,  commands. 


He  hears  but  good  repute  of  all  thy  works, 
That  thou  art  studious  and  devout,  and  livst 
According  to  our  order's  rigid  law. 
And  so,  he  suits  the  honor  to  thy  worth. 

ANGELICO 

Father,  thou  knowest  I  am  weak  and  frail ; 
In  this  high  office  I  should  be  as  wax 
To  every  undeserver.     Go  thou,  father, 
And  pray  the  Pope  to  choose  a  better  man. 

THE  PRIOR 

I  know  thee,  Fra  Giovanni,  to  the  heart. 
He  could  not  find  a  better. 

ANGELICO 
I  am  filled 

With  fears.     I  have  a  hand  to  paint,  but  not 
To  govern. 

THE  PRIOR 
Dost  thou  doubt  the  Pope, 
And  his  strong  wisdom  in  electing  thee? 

ANGELICO 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

LIPPI 

I'll  tell  thee,  then. 

Take  thou  this  office,  and  its  benefice, 
And  thy  lean  body  shall  grow  fat ;  thy  soul 
Shall  turn  to  things  more  human.    For  thine  art — 
What  need  of  that,  so  thou  dost  serve  the  Church? 
And  better  painters  shall  rejoice  in  thee 
When  thou  dost  buy  their  pictures.    Take  the  place, 
And  loose  a  little  money  to  the  craft. 

ANGELICO 

I  thank  thee,  brother,  for  this  heedless  word. 
Father,  I  now  do  know  the  will  of  Heaven. 
I  can  not  take  the  place.     In  humbleness 
I  pray  that  it  be  given  to  a  man 
More  worthy,  and  more  apt  in  government. 

LIPPI 

The  doddering  fool  doth  babble.     Age  and  fast 
Have  broken  him,  and  he's  no  more  a  man. 
Give  me  the  place,  since  good  men  scorn  it  so, 
And  I  will  try  the  might  of  mirth  and  wine 

30 


To  bring  the  folk  of  Florence  into  Heaven. 

[The  Prior  makes  a  gesture  of  dis 
may,  and  all  the  monks  move  away 
from  him. 

You  will  not?     Fare  ye  well.     I  scarcely  hoped 

My  merit  could  be  recognized  so  young. 

[Fra  Lippi  runs  off  right;  the  pro 
cession  goes  off,  left;  the  Prior  with 
Fra  Angelico. 


SCENE  IV 

The  scene  changes  back  to  Florence, 
and  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  is  seen  paint 
ing  a  picture  for  the  nuns;  the  pic 
ture  is  seen  in  tableau,  Lucrezia 
Buti  posing  as  the  Virgin  and  the 
Prioress  with  other  nuns  kneeling  in 
adoration.  The  Prioress  and  the 
other  nuns  grow  restless,  while  Lip- 
pi  makes  eyes  at  Lucrezia. 


THE  PRIORESS 

Fra  Lippo,  does  thy  precious  panel  carry 
All  of  the  blue  I  bought  for  thee,  and  all 
The  gold? 

LIPPI 

Not  yet,  mother. 

PRIORESS 
It  must  all  be  there. 

LIPPI 
I  doubt  not  thcu  wilt  seek  it  sharply  out. 

PRIORESS 

We  must  be  watchful  over  what  we  own, 
Since  we  are  poor,  and  gold  and  blue  expensive. 

LIPPI 

I  know  not  where  to  put  it,  mother.     Still 
Since  thou  desirest,  it  shall  all  appear. 

PRIORESS 

My  weariness,  Fra  Lippo,  overcomes  me. 
May  I  rest  now. 

32 


LIPPI 

[Without  looking  at  her. 
Move,  and  the  picture  fails. 

PRIORESS 

I  can  endure  this  task  no  longer,  Lippo. 
LIPPI 

Yet  thou  art  often  on  thy  knees  for  days 

And  saintly  vigils  thou  dost  keep,  and  fasts ; 

Ah,  thou  shouldst  mortify  the  ravening  flesh, 

Mother,  and  live  a  hard  and  holy  life. 

[Lucrezia  moves  uneasily. 

But  if  thy  fasting  makes  thy  body  faint, 

I  would  not  have  thee  suffer.     Rest  thou,  mother. 

[The  tableau  is  broken  up,  the  nuns 
resting  from  their  pose.  Lucrezia 
moves  as  if  to  rise. 

Nay,  sit  thou  still.     I  must  see  more  of  thee. 

[The  vesper  bells  ring,  and  the  nuns 
go  in,  except  the  Prioress,  and  one 
other.  Lucrezia  keeps  her  place. 

PRIORESS 

Fra  Lippo,  this  thy  task  is  slowly  done. 

How  many  hours  must  we  so  serve  thee,  man? 

LIPPI 

Art,  blessed  mother,  hath  no  birth  nor  end, 
But  grows  in  grace  as  patience  counsels  it. 
For  five  and  fifty  scudi  I  have  pledged 
This  panel  shall  be  done.     It  is  so  little— 

PRIORESS 

And  I  to  find  the  ultramarine,  remember, 
And  all  the   gold  thereon. 

LIPPI 

True,  true. 

Thou  hast  a  generous  heart.     I  had  forgot. 
But  I,  a  poor  unworthy  painter  man, 
I  long  to  make  this  panel  marvelous, 
And  so  atone  for  some  few  casual  sins 
I  may  have  left  behind  me.     For  Our  Lady 
Will  surely  hold  that  my  delinquent  life 
Is  better  spent,  if  She  be  glorified. 
So,  mother,  all  the  toil  thou  dost  endure 

33 


Is  registered  in  favor  of  my  soul. 
For  thee,  a  finer  panel — I  admit  that,  too. 
But  when  thy  body  aches  to  bear  the  strain 
Of  this,  thine  attitude  of  reverence, 
Remember  how  thou  dost  atone  for  me — 
And  this  is  surely  Christian  work,  and  sweet. 

PRIORESS 

How  long,  I  asked  thee,  must  I  thus  atone? 

[Lippi  looks  at  Lucrezia,  who  leans 
toward  him,  smiling. 

LIPPI 

I  think  I  shall  not  need  thee  any  more. 

PRIORESS 
For  this  short  quittance,  thanks.     Come  with  me,  child. 

LUCREZIA 
The  painter  bade  me  sit  a  little  while. 

PRIORESS 
I  must  be  gone.     Come  in  before  the  dusk. 

[The  Prioress  motions  to  the  nun  to 
stay,  and  goes  out. 

LIPPI 

I  need  a  sleeping  angel  to  put  here. 

A  sleeping  angel  with  a  face  like  thine, 

So  peaceful,  and  so  eloquent  of  Heaven. 

[He  poses  the  nun  in  a  comfortable 
position,  leaning  against  the  throne; 
hums  a  refrain  for  a  moment,  moves 
about  his  canvas,  and  goes  over  to 
Lucrezia.  He  leans  over  her  chair 
to  satisfy  himself  that  the  nun  is 
asleep,  and  pauses,  looking  down 
into  Lucrezia's  face. 

How  shall  mere  paint  and  skill,  madonna,  breathe 

Into  a  picture  this,  thy  loveliness. 

A  music  floating  through  some  golden  cloud, 

A  dream  of  starry  night-skies  in  the  sea, 

And  incantations  deeper  than  the  wells 

Of  sleep  enchant  me;  but  these  pallid  nuns 

Smother  thy  witchery  with  their  dross  of  death. 

Madonna,  thou  must  come  with  me.     My  love 

Shall  burn  away  their  ashen  durances, 

And  give  thee  wings  to  soar  unto  delight. 

31 


LUCREZIA 

These  are  no  words  for  thee — a  holy  man. 
LIPPI 

To  thee  they  are  the  words  that  must  be  said, 
Inevitable  words — from  me  to  thee, 
Words  that  the  constellations  had  decreed 
Before  we  two  had  birth  into  the  world. 

LUCREZIA 

But  thou  dost  wear  this  habit,  and  thy  vows 
Do  they  not  bind  thee  close?  were  they  not  ta'en 
With  vigils  and  with  solemn  meditation? 

LIPPI 

With  meditation,  surely.    I  was  eight  years  old 
When  first  the  brothers  took  me.    What  had  I 
To  meditate  upon.    When  I  renounced  the  world 
I  did  not  dream  that  there  were — such  as  thou. 

LUCREZIA 

For  me,  too,  there's  a  wrong  in  this.    Name  it 
Howe'er  thou  wilt. 

LIPPI 

A  sin?     But  man  is  made 
For  sin,  and  for  repentance.    As  for  thee — 
There  is  no  sin  for  thee — thou  art  not  bound. 

LUCREZIA 
But  thou  art  bound. 

LIPPI 

Bound,  yea — but  we  who  serve 
Earn  absolution. 

LUCREZIA 
Yet — I  cannot  go. 

LIPPI 
Thou  lovest  me? 

LUCREZIA 
As  I  do  live,  I  love  thee. 

LIPPI 
Then  come. 

LUCREZIA 

Thy  habit  frightens  me. 

[He  takes  off  his  gown,  and  appears 
in  the  dress  of  a  young  Florentine 

35 


gentleman;  he  drops  the  gown  over 
the  sleeping  nun,  and  Lucrezia 
rushes  into  his  arms.  They  go  out. 
The  Prioress  enters,  with  a  candle, 
finds  the  picture,  and  arouses  the 
nun,  who  crawls  out  from  under  the 
monk's  gown.  The  screams  of  the 
Prioress  arouse  the  nuns,  who  come 
trooping  out  of  the  door.  They  take 
in  the  picture  and  the  chair,  clear 
ing  the  stage. 

THE  PRIORESS 
A  snake 

Hath  harbored  here  among  us.     Get  within. 
If  Holy  Church  doth  rule  in  Florence,  I 
Will  have  her  back.     This  by  our  Lady's  girdle 
I  vow. 

THE  NUN 

I  doubt  it,  mother.    They  are  both 
Filled  with  deceit,  and  with  the  craft  of  sin. 
Better  to  go  to  bed,  and  wait  till  morning. 

PRIORESS 

Doormouse !    I'll  penance  thee  anon.    Begone. 

[The  Prioress  goes  off,  attended  by 
two  of  the  nuns.  The  others  retire 
through  the  door. 


SCENE  V 

[Night;  Bernardetto  de  Medici  and 
Andrea  dal  Castagno  enter. 

BERNARDETTO 

Andrea,  what  strange  craft  of  color  's  this 
Thou  and  Domenico  dost  paint  withal? 
Men  tell  me  everywhere  how  magical 
The  tints  do  gleam,  and  flesh  doth  seem  to  live 
In  these  new  frescoes  in  the  Nuovo  Church. 

ANDREA 

A  craft,  Ser  Bernardetto,  learned  so  hard 
That  we  are  loath  to  make  it  known  at  all. 

BERNARDETTO 

But  unto  me,  since  I,  by  service  done 
May  merit  something  from  thy  courtesy, 
To  me  thou  surely  wilt  reveal  the  thing. 
I  am  no  painter,  but  a  gentleman 
Who,  coming  of  a  house  that  loves  the  arts, 
Would  know  somewhat  of  this. 

ANDREA 
So  thou  dost  claim, 

As  though  my  gratitude  were  limitless, 
A  secret  known  to  only  two  in  Florence? 

BERNARDETTO 

Andrea,  as  thou  art  a  man,  shake  off 

This  black  suspicion.     Tell  me  all.     They  say 

Domenico  hath  done  a  picture  here 

More  perfect  than  our  city  ever  knew. 

37 


ANDREA 
Aye,  aye — Domenico! 

BERNARDETTO 
And  for  thee,  too, 
The  rumour  of  the  city  's  warm  with  praise. 

ANDREA 
Only  two  men  in  Tuscany — 

BERNARDETTO 

For  the  deep  interest  I  do  bear  in  thee, 
As  one  who  found  thee  in  the  open  fields, 
And  gave  thy  youth  fair  opportunity, 
Making  thee  grow  a  painter,  when  thy  fate 
Had  written  thee  a  peasant  otherwise, 
I  ask  thee — tell  me  of  this  secret  craft. 

ANDREA 

Hear,  then,  and  never,  as  thou  art  my  friend, 
Disclose.    This  secret  John  of  Bruges,  a  man 
High  standing  in  the  Flemish  Guild  of  Luke, 
Found  out  by  patience  and  experience. 
That  paint  may  be,  as  our  old  masters  knew, 
Laid  on  new-plastered  walls,  we  all  have  known, 
But  otherwise,  the  highest  skill  we  use 
Is  waste  and  wanton  to  the  hand  of  time. 
But  John  of  Bruges  hath  found  another  way, 
Mixing  his  colors  with  some  certain  oils, 
And  lo,  the  colors  live,  and  keep  their  hue. 
The  secret  of  these  oils  he  sometime  gave 
To  Antonello,  the  Messinian. 
And  he,  in  Venice,  told  Domenico, 
Who,  coming  hither,  for  the  love  he  bore  me, 
Gave  me  to  know  the  priceless  mystery. 

BERNARDETTO 

This  is  a  fortunate  tide  for  thee,  Andrea. 
Only  two  men  in  Tuscany,  and  thou 
One  of  the  two.    They  say  Domenico 
Hath  quite  surpassed  the  ancient  masters  by  it. 

ANDREA 

Ser  Bernardetto,  I  have  told  thee  all. 
Forgive  me — I  am  in  an  evil  mood. 
Let's  speak  no  further  of  it.    Hark,  who  comes? 

[A  lute  is  heard. 

38 


BERNARDETTO 

Some  reveller,  I  warrant.    I'll  not  stay. 
This  fellow's  music,  and  thine  evil  mood 
Are  equally  against  my  taste.    Farewell. 

[Exit  Bernardetto. 

ANDREA 

That  lute  is  his.    Domenico,  thou  art 

The  only  other  man  in  Tuscany 

Who  knows  this  secret,  and  so  rivals  me. 

Before  thy  picture  all  the  motley,  throng 

Cries  out  with  praise  of  thee,  and  in  the  noise 

And  roaring  volume  of  this  flattery 

I  am  forgotten,  and  my  higher  craft 

Neglected  and  despised.    Aye,  twang  thy  lute. 

My  wrath  doth  bubble  at  the  sound  of  it, 

And  whelm  me  in  a  crimson  wave  of  hate. 

[Silently  he  crosses  and  conceals 
himself,  as  Domenico  enters,  loiter 
ing  and  singing. 

DOMENICO 

[Sings. 

Flower  of  the  thorn, 
Who  shall  kiss  thy  white  throat, 
Who  shall  comfort  thine  eyes? 
Flower  of  the  thorn. 
Flower  of  the  rose, 
Who  shall  love  a  patched  coat, 
Who  shall  make  thee  his  prize- 
Flower  of  the  rose? 

ANDREA 

Only  we  two  in  Tuscany.    And  from 

This  hour — Only  one  man  in  Tuscany. 

[He  throws  his  cloak  over  his  face, 
and  rushing  upon  Domenico,  stabs 
him.  Domenico  screams  and  falls. 
Andrea  pounces  upon  him.  A  pause. 
Domenico  dies.  Andrea  looks  about 
him,  rises,  breaks  the  lute  in  a  fury, 
and  starts  to  go  off.  He  hears  the 
guard  coming,  and  returns  to  the 
body,  taking  up  the  head  in  his 


arms.     Enter  Bernardetto,  with  the 
city  guard  at  his  heels.    Andrea  lifts 
up    the   body,   crying   out   as  if   in 
frantic  grief. 
My  brother — 

Ser  Bernardetto,  this  my  dearest  friend, 

Domenico,  my  brother,  here  is  slain. 

[They  carry  off  the  body,  clearing 
the  stage. 


•1!) 


SCENE  VI 
THE  HERALD 

O  DOTH  BLACK  ENVY  TURN  THE 

SOLEMN  NIGHT 

TO  HORROR,  AND    THE    DAY    TO 

EXECRATION. 

THIS  MAN,  THE  JUDAS    OF    THE 

CRAFT,  ESCAPED 

THE  PENALTY  AND  JUSTICE  OF 

HIS  DEED 

IN    THIS    BLIND    WORLD.        BUT 

OTHERWHERE  HE  LIES 
Whelmed  in  the  fires  that  his  dark  malice  kindled 
And  we,  who  know  his  bitter  secret  heart, 
Call  him  Andrea  degli  Impicatti — 
Andrea  of  the  Hanged  Men.     So  fate 
Doth  brand  the  names  of  those  who  hate  their  kind. 
The  night  of  envy  unimaginable 
Now  passeth,  and  the  misty  morning  stirs, 
Opes  drowsy  eyes,  and  smiles  on  Tuscany. 
The  market-folk,  with  all  their  luscious  fruits, 
The  merchants  with  their  gorgeous  orient  wares, 
Money-changers,  and  singers  of  the  street 
Arouse  themselves,  and  day  grows  musical 
With  the  clear  joyous  tumult  of  the  town. 
Now  mark  you,  through  this  fair  doth  wander  one 
Whom  Glory  hath  not  kissed,  but  who  shall  be 
Among  her  best  beloved  ere  he  die. 
This  Lionardo,  young  and  vision-rapt, 
Follows  his  starry  quest;  and  after  him 
In  state,  Lorenzo  of  the  Medici, 
Who  passeth  with  his  glittering  train;  and  if 
In  the  uncertain  light  of  this  late  year 


He  seem  not  as  he  was,  Magnificent, 

You  must  impute  it  to  old  jealous  Time 

Who  shears  the  plume  of  Splendour  from  the  helm 

And  rends  the  broidered  robe  of  Circumstance. 

But  this  Lorenzo,  in  his  company 

Hath  Sandro  Botticelli,  in  whose  heart 

The  sunrise  of  the  world  is  immanent, 

Sandro,  to  whom  the  fluttering  veils  of  girls, 

The  lovely  lines  of  limbs  that  flash  and  dance, 

The  subtile,  blossomy  airs  of  spring  and  youth, 

Are  all  as  provinces  to  their  conqueror; 

And  here  this  Sandro,  if  we  watch  him  well, 

Shall  gain  the  ring  great  Aphrodite  Venus  gave 

To  wed  her  beauty  with  his  deathless  fame. 

[The  lights  come  up  gradually, 
showing  a  street  in  Florence  on  a 
market  day;  merchants  and  traders, 
dancers,  beggars,  and  all  manner  of 
people  appear,  with  all  sorts  of 
wares. 

[Enter  Verrochio,  Perugino,  and 
Lorenzo  di  Credi. 

LORENZI  DI  CREDI 

Surely,  my  master,  we  shall  find  him  here, 
For  he  is  oft  among  the  market  folk, 
And  studies  the  strange  faces  as  they  pass. 
Shall  we  await  him? 

VERROCHIO 

Nay,  I  cannot  wait, 
For  there  's  a  fever  in  my  blood  until 
I  come  upon  him. 

LORENZI  DI  CREDI 
Is  there  mischief,  master, 
And  chastisement  decreed  for  Lionardo? 

VERROCHIO 

Nay,  lad;  I  scarce  can  tell  thee.     He  hath  brought 
A  shame  upon  me,  and  a  joy  as  well. 
Lorenzo,  thou  art  very  dear  to  me, 
And  Perugino,  thou  no  less  I  love. 
Ye  serve  me  truly ;  in  your  art  you  bring 
Some  credit  to  your  master;  yet  no  fear 
Have  I  with  you  of  mine  authority. 

42 


Yesterday — nay,  I'll  speak  to  him — not  you. 

[Lionardo  enters,  and  walks  along 
the  market  slowly,  as  if  in  thought; 
he  stops  at  the  stall  of  a  bird  seller. 

LORENZI  DI  CREDI 

Master,  there  stands  our  Lionardo.     Call  him, 
An  thou  wilt. 

VERROCHIO 
I  have  no  haste  to  utter 
This  bleak  word. 

LORENZI  DI  CREDI 
What  folly  's  this  he  does? 

VERROCHIO 

This  is  the  folly  makes  him  what  he  is, 
The  whim  that  rules,  that  beggars  him ;  and  yet 
Lorenzo,  pray  thou  for  such  glorious  whims, — 
Since  godlike  follies  have  immortal  ends. 

THE  BIRD  SELLER 

Nay,  young  sir,  these  birds  must  cost  thee  more 
Than  seven  scudi.     For  them  all — say  ten. 

LIONARDO 

Ten  scudi,  and  the  freedom  of  the  air 

I  purchase  for  so  little — little  enough 

For  such  enchantments.     Take  the  silver,  man, 

And  throw  the  cage  wide  open. 

[Pays  him. 

THE  BIRD  SELLER 
They  will  fly; 
They  are  not  wing-clipped! 

LIONARDO 
I  have  paid  the  price: 

What  if  I  choose  that  they  should  fly?     For  this 
I  buy  them,  free  them.     Man,  they  carry  me 
On  wings  aloft.     I,  too,  am  freed  for  flight ; 
And  this  my  shard  of  heavy  flesh  and  bone 
For  one  swift  instant  discreate,  and  shred 
The  fetters  of  this  foul  confining  earth ; 
For  one  clear  flash  when  first  these  wings  take  hold 
On  the  rebellious  air,  my  spirit  soars, 
And  in  that  moment — I  'm  not  wing-clipped  either. 

43 


[He  opens  the  cage,  and  the  birds 
soar  upward ;  as  they  circle,  his  eyes 
follow  them;  when  they  alight  his 
gaze  falls,  and  he  finds  himself  eye- 
to-eye  with  Verrochio. 
My  master!  Now,  my  folly  's  done. 

VERROCHIO 

Da  Vinci, 

Here  my  stubborn  will  doth  bend;  I  come 
To  seek  thee  as  a  pupil  seeks  his  master. 
Thou  knowest  well  my  life ;  I  have  been  quick 
To  choose  and  practice  many  an  art ;  to  work 
Wood  and  tough  gold,  and  carve  in  rigid  stone ; 
To  draw,  to  play  the  lute  and,  most  divine 
Of  all  the  crafts,  to  paint.     And  yester-eve 
I  left  thee  as  the  merest  'prentice  lad 
Before  my  panel  of  the  Baptist  John. 
To-day  I  came  again,  and  found  thy  work. 
I  was  thy  master,  and  I  cried  for  joy; 
I  was  a  painter,  and  I  wept  for  shame. 
I  came  to  seek  thee,  for  my  wonted  life 
Must  change  because  of  this.     Henceforth, 
I  paint  no  more. 

LIONARDO 

Is  it  so  perfect,  then — 
The  kneeling,  wondering  angel  in  the  corner? 

VERROCHIO 

Too  perfect  for  my  skill  to  strive  against. 

LIONARDO 

Master,  thy  praise  doth  fire  me  with  supreme 
And  flaming  rapture. 

[He  moves  toward  the  bird  seller. 
I  must  have  more  birds. 

VERROCHIO 

Thou  thinkest  of  my  praise ;  not  of  the  pride 
I  broke  to  tell  thee. 

LIONARDO 

True ;  that  is  my  nature. 
I  can  not  alter  that. 


11 


VERROCHIO 

Then  fare  thee  well. 

But  when  wide  Italy  doth  come  to  praise 
Remember  sometime  who  thy  master  was. 

LIONARDO 

I'll  not  forget. 

[Exit  Verrochio  with  Lorenzi  di 
Credi  and  Piero  Perugino. 

The  honour  I  would  rear  for  one  I  love 

Doth  topple  in  the  air,  and  crush  him  down. 

Yet,  ah — the  beating,  lifting,  soaring  wings! 

[Lorenzo  de  Medici  and  his  train, 
including  Giuliano  de  Medici,  Poli- 
ziano,  Sandro  Botticelli,  and  Simon- 
etta  Vespucci,  cross  the  stage  on 
their  way  to  Fiesole. 


SCENE  VII 

The  scene  changes  to  Fiesole,  and 
Lorenzo  and  his  train  enter ;  Loren 
zo  is  seated  on  a  throne,  and  the 
group  arranges  itself  to  suggest  Bot 
ticelli's  picture. 

LORENZO 

Now,  while  the  spring's  flushed  whiteness  on  the  hills 

Makes  in  the  air  a  redolent  ecstacy, 

And  the  sad  face  of  nature  smiles  again, 

I  bid  you  to  a  tourney  of  the  arts ; 

A  Court  of  Love,  as  in  Provence  they  sung, 

And  lo !  I  give  you  this  for  your  songs'  burden : 

Beauty.     Now  let  the  lutes  be  strung. 

46 


GIULIANO 
My  brother, 

This  is  no  theme  for  unrelated  words; 
The  poets  should  have  time  for  phrasing  it. 

LORENZO 

Time  for  it?     Nay,  say  rather  that  they  speak 
What  they  must  long  have  conned,  and  know 
Even  as  they  know  to  breathe  and  sing.     How  now, 
Poliziano? 

POLIZIANO 

For  myself,  my  lord, 
I  ask  no  better  grace  than  to  begin, 
For  here  's  a  theme  full-fashioned  to  my  hand. 

LORENZO 

Thou,  Sandro? 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
'T  is  a  thing  I  see,  but  not 
To  speak  on. 

GUILIANO 

[Noticing  his  gaze  at  Simonetta, 
Messer  Sandro  sees.     Take  heed, 
Good  painter,  that  thou  art  content  therewith! 

LORENZO 

Poliziano,  let  me  hear  thy  voice. 

POLIZIANO 

Beauty 

Because  the  lady  Flora  spills  her  flowers, 
And  the  fleet  zephyrs  with  their  fragrances 
Kiss  all  the  cloudy  hill-tops  in  the  spring, 
Doth  dwell  among  us.     Flora,  heedless  grown 
From  her  long  sovranty  of  each  sweet  year, 
Runs  on,  and  leaves  us  the  faint  odorous  breeze 
To  tell  where  she  hath  been,  and  in  her  track 
The  waving  legions  of  the  star-eyed  flowers. 
But  follow  her,  and  lo!  the  Graces  dance, 
Apollo  strikes  his  lute  to  fiery  song, 
And  all  the  murmurous  and  Olympian  shades 
Breathe  out  their  paean  of  the  Attic  time. 
Follow  her,  and  we  pass  the  groves  of  Greece, 
The  pools  where  Artemis  in  splendour  clove 


The  crystal  deeps  with  her  divine  delight, 
And  round  upon  her  nymphs  the  silver  drops 
Splashed,  and  like  moonlight  burning  its  cold  flame 
Lighted  the  gloomy  woods  with  chastity. 
Follow  her,  and  the  bourgeoning  sea  shall  move, 
And  the  white  foam  shall  gather,  crest  on  crest, 
Till,  formed  beneath  the  grave  eternal  hand, 
The  foam  doth  flutter  with  inspired  life, 
And  lo ! 
The  Lady  Venus  treads  the  laughing  wave. 

[A   movement   of   applause   among 

the  group. 

LORENZO 

All  this  we  knew.     What  of  the  might  of  her? 

POLIZIANO 

Her  beauty  hath  a  might  more  deep  than  song, 
And  sovran  Venus,  in  her  beauty  clad 
Can  quell  the  fervent  heart  to  reverences. 
Nay,  more; 

The  body  which  doth  robe  the  lovely  soul, 
Itself  thrice  robed,  the  garment  of  a  garment, 
Still  rules  men  with  a  law  delectable. 
As  Plato  says,  the  Golden  Age  returns 
When  shame  is  fled,  and  we,  its  prisoners, 
Are  free  inheritors  of  beauty's  realm, 
Partakers  with  Endymion  in  bliss. 

LORENZO 

[Rising   and   ironically   kissing  the 

poet's  hand. 

Thus  much  of  beauty,  but  no  word  to  say — 
For  such  as  have  not  Plato  by  the  book — 
Where  she  exists?     Our  Sandro  here  could  tell, 
If  he  were  pleased.     A  Star  from  Genoa 
(If  that  my  brother  will  permit  me)  burns 
Among  our  constellations,  queen.     How  now, 
My  Sandro? 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 

The  poet  speaks,  and  from  his  stream  of  words, 
As  they  flash  by,  I  gather  this  and  that. 
Beauty  doth  thus  and  so.     The  lady  Flora, 
Artemis,  and  the  goddess  from  the  foam — 
All  these  are  words,  and  beauty  dwells  in  them. 

48 


But  'tis  my  trade  to  draw  her  otherwise. 
I  must  find  something  more  immediate 
Than  "Artemis" — a  word  to  conjure  with. 
And  beauty  such  as  perfect  pictures  need 
Is  not  so  often  found,  nor  easily  won. 

GUILIANO 

The  painter  hath  some  strangely  daring  quest 
Behind  this  pale  complaint. 

SIMONETTA 

What  if  he  has? 

The  soul  of  Artemis,  of  beauty  chaste 
As  snow,  must  still  be  living  in  the  world. 

LORENZO 

Truly,  madonna,  when  I  see  thee  so, 
I  can  believe  it. 

SIMONETTA 
Messer  Sandro,  speak. 
Why  doth  the  painter  of  his  art  complain? 
If  it  be  rare,  so  much  the  greater  gift 
To  fix  it  for  eternity. 

SANDRO 

So  rare 

A  thing  is  beauty,  to  mine  eyes, 
That  only  once  in  all  my  seeking  years 
Have  I  beheld  its  utter  perfectness. 
I  choose  to  make  a  picture,  let  us  say, 
Such  as  our  poet  spoke  of.     Shall  it  be 
A  Venus  rising  from  the  refluent  deep, 
And  Flora  walking  in  her  robe  of  flowers, 
The  Graces  dancing,  and  Apollo  girt 
For  visiting  the  world  with  amber  light? 
I  first  must  see  all  this,  not  as  a  dream, 
Or  pallid  vision  called  to  life  with  words, 
But  in  the  moving  flesh.     Apollo,  say, 
From  Messer  Giuliano  I  might  frame, 
And  fall  but  little  short.     The  Graces,  too, 
I  might  by  shift  accomplish.     But  the  Queen 
Of  Spring,  and  Aphrodite's  face — 
What  of  these  two? 

SIMONETTA 

And  yet  this  beauty  lives? 

49 


SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
She  lives,  for  I  have  looked  on  her. 

SIMONETTA 
Not  for  all  eyes  doth  beauty  burn  alike. 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
Nay,  but  for  mine,  this  star  doth  live  and  blaze. 

SIMONETTA 

She  liveth?     Why  then  should  thine  art 
Enshrine  her? 

SANDRO   BOTTICELLI 
Because  if  this  mine  art  doth  fault, 
She  soon  shall  bloom  within  the  dismal  grave. 

SIMONETTA 
And  so  thou  offerest — immortality. 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
If  my  hand  fail  not.  For  mine  art  hath  power 
To  keep  her  young  and  fadeless  through  the  years. 

SIMONETTA 

We  speak  in  riddles,  for  a  maiden  shame 
Sometimes  doth  overcome  me.     Yet,  you  say 
Great  Plato  calls  us  prisoners  of  shame. 
I  break  my  bonds  then.     Sandro,  look  on  me. 

SANDRO. 

Thy  pardon,  lady.     Thy  gracious  heart  doth  turn 
In  charity  upon  my  lowliness, 
So  kind  art  thou. 

SIMONETTA 
And  thou  dost  offer  me 
Immortal  honour;  for  the  sacred  garment 
Of  my  clear  soul  thou  askest.     It  is  thine. 
I'll  be  thy  Lady  Venus.     For  this  power 
Of  beauty's  mine  inheritance.     Not  long 
I  keep  it.     Thou  shalt  touch  with  art 
The  brief  and  fragile  wonder  of  my  being. 

GIULIANO 
Nay,  love,  I  will  not  have  it  so. 

SIMONETTA 
And  thou 
Who  speak'st  of  love,  hast  nought  to  say  of  this. 


I  do  this  for  art's  sake.     A  priestess  now, 
At  some  forgotten  shrine,  some  temple  dim 
In  the  far  morning  of  the  world,  I  lay 
This  maiden  sacrifice. 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
This  cannot  be. 
Thou  knowest  that  this  cannot  be. 

SIMONETTA 
Come  thou 
In  the  morning.     Fare  you  well. 

[Exit  Simonetta. 

[Giuliano    and    Sandro    left    facing 

each  other. 

GIULIANO 
Some  spiteful  witchcraft  hath  been  set  upon  her. 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
A  spell  of  truth,  that  dares  to  be  itself. 

GIULIANO 
This  will  I  ne'er  endure.     Thou  lovest  her. 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
My  lord,  such  love  as  I  do  bear  to  her 
Pulses  with  reverent  worship,  not  desire. 

LORENZO 

Peace,  brother !     There's  a  wind  from  down  the  vale 
That  pierces  me.     A  strange,  perspicuous  thing 
Doth  knock  upon  my  heart  as  on  a  gate. 
Break  off.     I  must  begone  from  hence. 
The  morrow  threatens.     Let  the  lutes  be  still. 

[Lorenzo   goes   off  with   his  train, 
and  the  scene  changes  to  Florence. 


51 


SCENE  VIII 

THE  HERALD. 

As  driven  clouds  that  flee  before  the  wind, 
The  lustrous  days  and  stormy  nights  go  by ; 
And  Simonetta,  flower  of  Genoa, 
Is  withered,  with  the  hopes  of  yester-year. 
Sandro  still  lives,  and  follows  in  the  train 
Of  that  pale  prophet  in  whose  flaming  speech 
The  sins  of  men  are  scourged  as  with  a  rod, 
And  he,  Savonarola,  the  Dominican, 
Turns  all  the  city  to  his  rigid  rule, 
And  in  unyielding  battle  with  the  flesh, 
Conquers,  and  quakes,  and  at  the  last  goes  down. 
But  ere  he  fall  we  shall  have  sight  of  him 
In  that  strange  year  when  the  Magnificent 
Crept  to  his  foe  for  peace  and  final  shrift. 
Strange  year :  in  far-off  Spain,  Granada  falls ; 
And  farther  still,  across  the  utter  deep, 
The  mariner  of  Genoa  dares,  and  finds 
A  star-shown  marvel  of  the  ancient  sea 
Where  stainless  waves,  from  immemorial  time 
Had  lapped  a  virgin  shore  that  no  keels  ploughed. 
But  here  in  Florence,  only  whispers  sound 
Of  these  far  ventures. 

Ere  the  prophet  comes, 
We'll  put  on  festal  raiment,  and  set  forth 
Along  the  streets,  and  see  among  his  lads, 
Domenico  the  Garland-Maker's  son. 
While  the  keen  bargaining  is  hot,  we'll  glimpse 
The  quaint  fantastic,  Piero  Cosimo, 
And  two  young  branches  who  already  bear 
The  glistering  promise  of  their  future  fame — 
Del  Sarto,  and  the  lonely  Angelo. 

52 


[Before  the  Shop  of  Domenico 
Ghirlandajo,  at  the  sign  of  the  Gar 
land,  in  Florence. 

[Giovanni     Tournabuoni     comes 
knocking  at  the  door  of  the  shop; 
he  is  followed  by  a  servant  carrying 
a  bag  of  money. 
GIOVANNI 
Ho,  there,  Domenico.    It's  I,  Messer  Tournabuoni. 

[Enter  Jacopo  1'Indaco,  from  the 
shop. 

JACOPO 

Ay,  Signore;  serve  you,  sir? 

GIOVANNI 
Send  me  your  master,  lad. 

JACOPO 

My  master  is  making  a  ring  for  a  lady,  Signore,  and  he  has  to 
day  to  finish  a  picture  for  an  abbess ;  and  what  with  these  mat 
ters  for  ladies,  he  will  never  have  time  to  see  you,  Signore. 
May  I  serve  you  in  his  place? 

GIOVANNI 

Be  off,  and  say  I  have  come  to  pay  him  for  the  paintings  in  the 
Ricci  chapel. 

JACOPO 
I'll  serve  as  well  for  that. 

[Enter  Ghirlandajo. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

Back  to  your  task,  you  rogue. 

JACOPO 

I  like  it  not,  master,  when  you  speak  to  me  so.  Fm  minded  to 
leave  your  service.  How  shall  I  ever  learn  to  get  their  money 
from  the  gentlemen  who  come,  if  you  never  give  me  leave  to 
try?  And  it's  something  you  never  teach  me,  and  a  very  im 
portant  part  of  the  trade,  too. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

Get  within,  boy.    Signore,  the  pictures  please  you? 

GIOVANNI 

Remind  me,  Domenico,  what  were  the  terms  of  our  bargain? 
I  was  to  pay  you  twelve  hundred  gold  ducats  for  the  three  pic 
tures  ;  and  a  good  price,  too.    And  if  you  pleased  rne  well,  two 

53 


hundred  ducats  more ;  which  was  an  odd  way  to  leave  the  mat 
ter,  as  you'll  admit. 

GHIRLANDAJO 
And  do  they  please  you,  signore  ? 

GIOVANNI 

To  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  they  do  not ;  and  yet  they  are 
such  wonderful  pictures,  and  in  them  you  have  outdone  all  the 
old  masters,  and  I  have  never  in  my  life  seen  such  color,  nor 
such  style,  as  yours.  And  of  all  the  painters  in  Florence,  I 
hold  you  are  the  best,  and  the  most  to  be  shown  favor. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

Save  in  the  matter  of  the  two  hundred  odd  ducats,  then,  they 
please  you? 

GIOVANNI 
Well,  that's  a  way  of  putting  it — yes. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

But  all  the  praise  you  have  spoken  of  them,  otherwise,  is  from 
the  heart? 

GIOVANNI 
From  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  Domenico. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

I  would  rather  hear  your  praise,  signore,  than  have  the  two 
hundred  ducats. 

GIOVANNI 

There's  a  discreet  man,  as  well  as  a  great  artist.  And  these 
are  truly  marvelous  works ;  but  having  this  to  say,  I  would  add 
further,  that  I  have  need  of  the  odd  ducats  myself,  and  if  you 
will  not  mention  it,  we'll  say  no  more  about  the  matter.  And 
here  are  the  twelve  hundred. 

[Takes  the  purse  from  the  servant, 

and  pays  him. 
Fare  you  well,  Messer  Domenico. 

[Exit  Giovanni. 

GHIRLANDAJO 
Ho,  there,  Monica,  Jacopo,  Cosa — all  of  you. 

[Enter    Jacopo,    Monica    and    Cosa 
from  the  shop. 

The  Signore  Tournabuoni  has  just  paid  me  my  money  for  the 
frescoes,  and  he  has  so  praised  me  that  I  am  minded  to  leave 

54 


everything  to  you,  and  set  myself  to  painting  for  the  rest  of 
my  days.  Trouble  me  with  nothing  about  the  house.  Take 
all  orders  which  come  to  you,  and  execute  them  if  you  can ;  let 
nothing  pass,  if  it  be  no  more  than  the  painting  of  a  basket 
handle  for  a  market  woman. 

MONICA 

And  what  if  the  lads  can  not  do  the  works? 

JACOPO 
I — I'll  not  paint  the  handle  of  a  market  woman's  basket ! 

COSA 
Not  if  she  wanted  it  done  the  same  day. 

JACOPO 
I'll  never  stoop  to  such  employments. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

Take  the  work,  and  I'll  do  it  myself.  But  never  trouble  me 
with  household  affairs,  for  now  that  I  have  found  the  way  to 
practice  this  art,  I  wish  the  whole  circuit  of  the  walls  of  Flor 
ence  were  given  me  to  cover  with  pictures. 

[Enter  a  prioress,  with  nuns. 

THE  PRIORESS 

Domenico,  is  the  panel  done? 

GHIRLANDAJO 
Virtually,  mother,  it  is  done. 

THE  PRIORESS 
Have  them  bring  it  forth. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

I  would,  mother,  but  for  a  small  matter  of  finish.  It  is  done, 
but  it  is  not  dry,  and  I  fear  me  you  will  not  like  it  so  well  as 
the  panel  I  made  for  the  brothers  of  Santa  Croce. 

THE  PRIORESS 
Why  not? 

GHIRLANDAJO 

Well,  in  that  picture,  mother,  they  gave  me  some  good  red 
wine;  for  you  must  know  that  to  make  good  faces,  with  red 
cheeks  and  lips,  very  good  red  wine  must  be  mixed  with  the 
colors;  and  what  with  the  poverty  of  my  trade,  and  the  ill 
quality  of  the  last  vintage,  I  am  nigh  distracted. 

55 


THE  PRIORESS 

[Aside  to  the  nuns. 
I  never  heard  of  this  matter  before ;  mixing  wine  with  colors. 

A  NUN 

I've  heard  of  it,  and  that  it  is  the  only  way  to  make  the  faces 
glow. 

ANOTHER  NUN 
We  might  send  him  a  butt  from  our  cellar. 

THE  PRIORESS 
We'll  no  nothing  of  the  sort. 

[To  Domenico. 
Show  me  the  panel. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

In  truth,  mother  I  can  not;  what  with  the  bad  quality  of  the 
wine,  I  have  still  some  painting  to  do  with  it.  Ah,  if  I  only  had 
some  of  the  older  vintage  for  it ! 

THE  PRIORESS 
Domenico,  are  you  quite  honest  with  us? 

GHIRLANDAJO 

Mother,  you  wrong  me.  I  am  cut  to  the  heart  by  your  sus 
picions.  I  never  knew  one  of  your  order  to  be  so  heartless. 

THE  PRIORESS 

I  do  not  understand  these  matters,  but  if  this  be  one  of  the 
mysteries  of  your  art,  I  must  even  help  you  out.  I  will  send 
you  a  butt  of  our  oldest  wine. 

[She  turns  back  to  the  nuns. 

See  to  it  that  the  price  of  the  wine  be  taken  out  of  the 
price  of  the  panel  when  we  pay  the  painter.  Fare  you  well, 
Domenico. 

[Exeunt  the  prioress  and  nuns. 

JACOPO 

Master,  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  will  stay  in  your  service, 
since  I  see  that  I  am  learning  the  necessary  things  about  the 
craft  from  you. 

MONICA 
Oho,  here's  a  wedding  afoot! 

[Enter  the  wedding  party — the  bride,  the 

groom,    and    the    parents    of    both,    with 

others. 

55 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  BRIDE 
Is  this  the  shop  of  Messer  Ghirlandajo,  the  goldsmith? 

GHIRLANDAJO 

At  your  service. 

[Aside,  to  Jacopo. 

Here's  a  rich  picking ;  go  you  and  bring  Piero  di  Cosimo.  The 
man's  Flemish,  and  we  shall  all  grow  rich  from  him. 

[Exit  Jacopo 

THE  BRIDE'S  MOTHER 

We  have  come  to  order  the  chest,  for  my  daughter's  wedding. 
And  we  desire  that  it  shall  be  painted  with  a  triumph  of  love, 
all  the  way  about. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 

It  will  be  enough  if  it  be  painted  on  the  top. 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 

That's  a  very  ill  sort  of  chest,  painted  only  on  the  top ;  what 
of  the  sides ;  must  they  be  plain  wood  ? 

THE  BRIDE 
I  think  I  might  have  the  triumph  painted  also  inside  the  lid. 

THE  BRIDE'S  MOTHER 
Sides  of  plain  wood ! 

THE  GROOM 

Let  her  have  it,  father,  I  pray  you.  Let  her  have  all  the  love 
she  likes  on  it. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 

As  you  will,  but  I  hold  it  will  be  ill  done,  if  it  be  painted  all 
over;  and  it  will  cost  me  a  farm  in  Flanders. 

[Enter  Piero  di  Cosimo 

GHIRLANDAJO 

I  pray  you,  submit  it  to  this  man,  who  is  an  excellent  artist. 
Shall  the  bridal  chest  be  painted  on  all  sides,  or  merely  across 
the  lid. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 
Who  is  to  paint  the  chest? 

GHIRLANDAJO 
I  am. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Then  across  the  lid  will  be  enough. 

57 


GHIRLANDAJO 

What  do  you  mean?  This  is  an  ill  jest,  Piero.  Tell  them  to 
have  it  painted  all  over,  and  you  and  Andrea  shall  paint  the 
sides. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Let  me  paint  the  lid,  and  I'll  arrange  the  matter.  You  may  do 
the  sides. 

GHIRLANDAJO 

As  you  will,  but  do  not  lose  me  the  work. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Gentles,  let  me  explain  this  mystery.  If  it  be  a  thing  to  be 
be  painted  by  this  great  master,  Messer  Ghirlandajo,  the  lid 
alone  would  be  a  rare  gift ;  but  if  it  be  painted  all  over  by  him, 
it  will  be  a  masterwork,  and  such  as  a  most  generous  man 
might  well  give  his  love;  such  a  gift  as  the  first  families  of 
Florence  would  choose.  And  so,  though  the  cost  is  small,  I 
leave  it  to  your  generosity  to  determine  which  it  shall  be. 

THE  GROOM 

Let  her  have  it  as  she  likes  it,  father. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 

I'll  agree,  though  it's  a  pernicious  thing  for  a  woman  to  have 
her  own  way,  and  a  thing  never  tolerated  in  Flanders. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Now,  signore,  let  me  have  a  word  with  you.  I  am  much  called 
upon  in  such  matters,  and  I  can  help  you.  Let  me  make  you 
a  list  of  such  things  as  a  generous  man  should  give  his  bride, 
that  they  may  be  married  in  handsome  style,  and  never  regret 
it  after. 

THE  BRIDE'S   MOTHER 
Here's  a  piece  of  good  fortune,  cur  finding  this  man. 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 

Ay,  let  him  tell  us,  and  we'll  get  the  things  he  names. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 

Sir,  you  are  interfering  in  a  matter  which  does  not  concern 
you. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

It  will  concern  me   enough,  signore,  before  you  have  done 
with  it. 
It  is  plain  that  you  must  give  her  a  shrine  of  Our  Lady,  with 

58 


a  Saint  John  on  one  side,  and  a  Saint  George  on  the  other, 
since  he  is  much  favored  in  Flanders,  and  I  observe  that  your 
father,  signore,  has  something  of  the  Fleming  about  him.  And 
inside  the  shutters  I  will  paint  for  you  a  portrait  of  you  both, 
that  she  may  be  reminded  of  her  husband  when  she  is  at 
prayer — which  is  a  very  excellent  thing  for  a  woman.  And 
my  lad,  Andrea,  will  paint  the  saints  for  us,  which  will  make 
the  cost  less,  and  the  pictures  as  good,  almost,  as  though  they 
were  done  by  my  own  hand. 

A  GIRL 

And  here's  the  mirror,  from  Venice. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Aha — a  mirror  from  Venice.  For  this  you  must  have  a  frame 
of  silver.  A  good  piece  of  work,  nicely  wrought.  Ghirlan- 
dajo,  you  may  make  the  frame  for  the  mirror.  Ah,  a  good 
steel.  But  this  is  a  vanity — I  look  into  it,  but  it  likes  me  not. 
For  you,  madonna,  this  is  for  you ;  you  shall  bloom  in  it.  And 
you,  madame. 

[To  the  Bride's  Mother. 

How  kindly  a  friend  is  a  mirror  to  one  of  your  countenance; 
in  truth,  I  fear  me  it  will  never  be  able  to  tell  your  face  from 
the  damigella's.  Wonderful,  wonderful.  You  have  a  daughter 
about  to  be  married!  Wonderful,  how  the  beauty  of  some 
women  makes  them  young  so  long. 

THE  BRIDE 

Messer  Domenico,  do  you  make  books  of  hours? 
PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

[Interrupting. 
Surely,  madonna;  and  that's  another  thing  you  must  have. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 
Come  with  me,  son.     I  will  not  listen  to  this  fellow  any  longer. 

THE  BRIDE'S  MOTHER 

[Holding  him  by  the  sleeve. 
Here's  the  penury  of  the  Flemish  blood.     Come  back,  sir. 

THE  BRIDE 

He  has  never  said  a  word  about  a  book,  nor  a  garland,  nor  a 
girdle,  nor  a  ring. 

THE  GROOM 

I  fear,  my  love,  for  my  father's  sake  it  might  be  better  to  come 
again  another  day. 


PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Foresight — foresight!  An  excellent  thing  in  a  young  bride. 
I  commend  you.  A  girdle;  a  silver  girdle? 

THE  BRIDE'S  MOTHER 

[Scornfully. 
A  silver  girdle! 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 

[In  agony. 
A  silver  girdle! 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Silver  will  do  very  well,  but  it  must  have  a  sonnet  engraved 
on  it.  Ho,  there  Andrea.  You  will  set  to  work  at  once  to 
draw  me  a  Saint  John  and  a  Saint  George  for  the  shutters  to 
the  shrine.  And  you,  Angelo,  come  forth. 

[Andrea  del  Sarto  comes  out  of  the 

shop. 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 
One  for  each  shutter,  master? 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 
Of  course. 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 
May  I  color  them  as  I  choose? 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Color  them  as  I  bid  you,  to  save  the  ultramarine.  Make  them 
yellow,  so  to  use  lots  of  ochre. 

THE  BRIDE'S  MOTHER 
What's  that  you  say? 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

I  bade  him  make  it  golden,  that  it  may  look  rich,  for  I  see  the 
young  man  is  a  generous  soul. 

[Enter   Michael  Angelo,  as  an  ap 
prentice. 

Michael,  do  you  write  me  a  sonnet  for  the  lady's  girdle;  and 
see  that  it  be  a  sweetly  flowing  one,  and  of  good  round  num 
bers. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

I  will,  master,  but  I  must  rhyme  it  as  I  like — and  no  one  in 
terfering. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 

I'll  not  pay  for  all  this ;  say  what  you  will,  I'll  not  pay. 


PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Signore,  I  never  meant  you  should  pay  for  this.  Pay  for  a 
sonnet!  No,  signore.  This  boy  is  good  for  little  else,  so  I 
bade  him  write  it.  But  we  should  never  think  of  your  paying 
for  it. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 
Ay,  but  all  these  other  things? 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 
For  them,  of  course,  Signore,  we  should  expect  you  to  pay. 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 
The  chest  with  the  lid  painted — that  I  agree  to.     Nothing  else. 

THE  GROOM 
And  the  shrine  of  Our  Lady? 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 
Not  another  thing. 

[He  starts  to  go  off,  but  is  restrained 
by  the  others,  who  all  hang  upon  his 
coat  tails. 

THE  BRIDE 
Not  the  book  of  hours! 

THE  BRIDE'S  MOTHER 
Not  the  girdle  with  the  sonnet! 

THE  GIRL 
Not  the  frame  for  the  mirror? 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATHER 

Not  the  ring,  even? 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 
This  is  a  den  of  thieves.     I  will  leave  it  a  beggar. 

THE  BRIDE 
Not  even  the  chest  with  the  lid  painted  inside? 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Will  you  have  your  son  wed  like  a  penniless  fellow  from  the 

wars? 

THE  GROOM'S  FATHER 

Begone,  all  of  you. 

[Exit  the  entire  party,  hanging  on 
to  the  groom's  father,  and  all  wail 
ing  in  wrath. 

61 


GHIRLANDAJO 

Piero,  ruin  stares  me  in  the  face.     Look  what  you  have  lost 

me. 

PIERO  DI  COSIMO 

Nonsense,  man.     Take  this  to  your  philosophy.    A  Fleming — 

boy — a  Fleming!     And  from  such,  may  the  gracious  saints 

preserve  us  all. 

[Ghirlandajo  retires  into  his  shop, 
and  Piero  di  Cosimo,  somewhat 
crestfallen,  but  still  confident,  re 
turns  to  his. 


SCENE  IX 

[A  Market  Place  in  Florence.  Citi 
zens  and  market  people  assembled. 
Sandro  Botticelli,  attired  as  a  lay 
brother,  moves  among  them. 

A  CITIZEN 

'Tis  said  the  Friar  will  preach  again  today 
Against  the  Medici. 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 

Ay,  and  the  walls 
Of  this  proud  city  tremble  at  his  words. 

A  WOMAN 
Why  does  he  thus  revile  the  Medici? 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
Because  through  them  is  the  Republic  slain. 
Through  them  the  canker  feeds  upon  the  heart, 
And  Florence  staggers  with  iniquity. 


ANOTHER  CITIZEN 
We'll  hear  him,  for  his  fearful  prophecies 
Have  one  and  all  come  true. 

A  VENETIAN 
Is  this  the  place 

Where  the  great  prophet  of  Saint  Dominic 
Doth  speak? 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 

Ay,  and  behold  along  the  streets 

The  people  thronging.    In  yon  open  square, 

To-day,  by  his  command,  the  Vanities, 

The  evil  images  and  pictures,  gems, 

And  books  unholy,  like  Boccaccio's, 

And  all  the  works  of  lure  and  luxury 

There  shall  be  builded  in  one  reeking  pyre 

And  burnt  to  light  the  glory  of  the  Cross. 

See,  where  the  father  comes. 

[Enter  Savonarola,  followed  by  a 
great  crowd;  he  mounts  the  plat 
form  and  addresses  the  people. 

SAVONAROLA 

Men  of  Florence, 

This  day  I  speak  not  of  your  guilty  past, 
Nor  of  the  crimes  that  break  your  city  down, 
The  sins  that  have  now  fallen  upon  your  limbs 
Like  chains.     But  of  the  silken  luxury, 
The  greed  of  power  and  lust  and  fatal  ease 
That  make  you  slaves.    And  for  the  flaming  truth 
I  here  have  uttered,  he  who  holds  the  seal 
But  never  held  the  spirit  of  the  Church, 
Proclaims  me  excommunicate,  accursed. 
For  what?    Because  I  called  you  from  your  sins, 
And  bade  you  flock  unto  the  sinless  Cross? 
What  need  of  cursing  for  all  this?    Because 
In  love  for  me  you  have  shut  close  your  streets 
From  evil  men,  and  vain  displays,  and  lived 
According  to  the  dictates  of  the  Word? 
Is  this  my  crime?    No,  men  of  Florence,  no ! 
But  I  have  spoken  of  the  Medici 
In  open  terms,  and  called  upon  their  house 
To  give  you  back  your  ancient  freedoms,  arts, 
And  all  the  liberties  your  fathers  knew. 

64 


For  this,  they  brand  me  excommunicate. 

[Enter  Lorenzo  de  Medici  and  his 
train. 

A  FRIAR 

Father,  there  comes  the  base  Magnifico. 
Better  we  held  our  preaching  otherwhere. 

SAVONAROLA 
Nay,  he  is  one  I  most  desire  should  hear. 

LORENZO 

[To  his  people. 

There's  one  who  comes  to  live  among  us  here, 
Homing  within  my  city  and  my  house, 
Who  never  yet  hath  paid  me  courtesy. 

SAVONAROLA 

Lord  of  the  Medici,  what  bringeth  thee 
Into  the  street  where  men  do  preach  God's  law? 

LORENZO 

I  came  to  seek  for  thee,  Girolamo. 

SAVONAROLA 
So  much  I  had  foretold. 

LORENZO 
Father,  thou  art 

Though  I  have  little  cause  to  love  thee  else, 
The  only  honest  priest  in  Florence.    So, 
I  seem  to  flatter  thee.    My  desperate  need 
Drives  me  to  thee.    Father,  I  have  come  to  feel 
About  my  head  the  beating  of  black  wings ; 
Death  chills  me  with  his  grisly  iron  clutch, 
And  I  would  be,  ere  my  last  breath  go  out, 
At  peace. 

SAVONAROLA 

I  come  not  here  to  bring  thee  peace. 

LORENZO 

Yet  do  I  trust  thee,  and  thou  art  a  priest. 
Hear  my  confession,  name  my  penances, 
And  send  my  soul  upon  its  lonely  flight. 
I  come  to  thee,  as  one  who  dies,  in  ruin. 

SAVONAROLA 
As  I  am  son  and  seed  of  Holy  Church, 


I  answer.    But  since  he  who  rules  in  Rome 
Hath  cast  me  off,  I  make  my  own  conditions. 

LORENZO 

Name  them,  and  be  brief.    My  mortal  weakness 
Overcomes  me. 

SAVONAROLA 
That  thou  are  quick  in  faith. 

LORENZO 

Else  I  had  sought  thee  not. 

SAVONAROLA 
Thou  shalt  give  back 
Unto  the  city  and  the  poor,  all  gains 
Taken  by  indirection  or  injustice. 

LORENZO 

If  I  refused  thee,  it  were  plain  to  all, 
I  am  not  truly  penitent.    This,  too, 
I  grant. 

SAVONAROLA 

And  last,  thou  shalt  decree  the  end 
Of  thine  unlawful  lordship  over  Florence ; 
Restore  the  old  republic  to  its  own, 
And  make  the  city  free  of  all  thy  house 
Endlessly  and  irrevocably  free. 

LORENZO 

Without  this  thing  thou'lt  not  absolve  me? 

SAVONAROLA 
Without  this  pledge,  I  will  not  succor  thee. 

LORENZO 

And  though  I  die  unshriven,  thou  art  firm? 

SAVONAROLA 

And  though  thou  die  unshriven,  this  I  hold : 
Florence  must  shake  thee  off,  and  all  thy  house. 

LORENZO 

My  friends,  the  prophet  dooms  me,  judges  me. 
So  be  it.    Take  me  home  again — for  rest. 

(Exit  Lorenzo  and  his  train.) 


SAVONAROLA 

In  yonder  open  square,  devoted  brothers, 

Let  the  fires  be  lit. 

[Exit  Savonarola  with  the  Domini 
cans,  many  of  the  people  following 
him.  A  procession  of  young  people, 
carrying  all  manner  of  Vanities — 
books,  pictures,  gems  and  trinkets  of 
all  sorts — moves  across  the  stage 
toward  the  fires,  from  which  a  glow 
is  seen  shining  upon  the  faces  of  the 
youths,  and  on  Sandro  Botticelli, 
who  stands  watching  them,  lost  in 
meditation. 

SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 

So  do  the  evils  of  the  world  burn  down ; 

A  blessed  glow  is  this  the  flames  ray  out, 

More  sweet  than  many  candles  round  a  shrine, 

Since  lures  of  hell  here  turn  to  lights  of  peace, 

And  sin  doth  furnish  fires  for  chastening. 

See  where  the  books  of  tales  unholy  burn, 

Tales  of  Morganti  and  Boccaccio, 

Volumes  of  sorcery  and  magic  arts. 

Ah,  these  are  well  destroyed,  though  for  myself, 

Boccaccio  might  be  saved.    He's  not  all  sin. 

And  pictures,  too;  I  had  not  thought  on  this. 

How  deep  in  shame  the  unawakened  man 

May  delve  and  know  it  not.    Before  he  came, 

I  looked  on  beauty  as  a  heavenly  thing, 

And  blindly  courted  its  delusive  grace. 

[An  artist  passes,  bearing  a  Venus 
to  the  fires. 

Yon  Venus  hath  a  wondrous  art  in  her, 

And  must  the  plundering  fires  consume  her?    Lo! 

She  is  a  shadow — but  a  shadow  of  delight, 

So  beautiful.    Yon  fragment  of  pale  stone 

A  heathen  chisel  shaped  ere  Christ  was  born — 

Must  it  go  too  into  the  ruining  flame  ? 

Ah,  this  is  bitter  to  mine  eyes. 

[A  man  carrying  a  picture  of  Botti 
celli's  goes  by. 
My  work! 

How  shall  I  suffer  this!    From  mine  own  hand 

Yon  fluttering  shape  of  girlhood,  dancing,  girt 

67 


With  flowers  about  her  maiden  breast  and  hair — 

From  mine  own  hand!   And  she  was  lovelier 

Than  the  pale  image  shows  her ;  and  the  stars 

Are  not  more  pure  than  she  was.    Pause,  I  say. 

I  will  not  have  her  burn. 

[He  starts  after  the  bearer  of  the 
picture,  but  turns  back  with  a  cry  of 
anguish  as  the  picture  is  cast  upon 
the  fire. 
A  tongue  of  flame 

Doth  lick  my  naked  heart. 

[He  looks  again  and  finds  Savon 
arola  confronting  him.    Sandro  falls 
on  his  knees. 
Master,  do  thou 

Pray  for  me.    I  am  lost  in  desperate  sin. 


SCENE  X 

INTERMISSION 

THE  HERALD 

OW   IS   THE    TIDE    FULL    FLOOD, 
AND  GLORIUS  NAMES 
SOUND     ON     THE    TONGUES     OF 
MEN  INNUMERABLE; 
NOW     TIME     DOTH     BOURGEON, 
AND  ALL  ITALY 

HUMS     LIKE      A      HIVE       WITH 
MIGHTY  CONSUMMATIONS. 
OLYMPIAN    SOULS    ARE    THESE, 
AND  WHAT  ARE  WE 

That  we  should  rouse  their  glories  from  their  sleep, 

And  in  the  vesture  of  their  vanished  state 

Tread  through  the  masque  of  their  mortality? 

So,  I  beseech  you,  let  your  eyes  behold 

Not  the  dull  poverty  of  our  regard, 


But  the  imperial  splendours  of  their  life, 

And  clothe  us,  as  we  pass,  with  their  renown. 

So  shall  they  live  the  moment  in  your  minds, 

And  we,  their  lowliest  heritors,  give  due 

And  seemly  honour  with  humility. 

But  few,  of  all  the  swarming  genius-brood, 

Can  we  illume.    Some  lofty  names  our  play, 

Though  from  no  lack  of  diligence,  must  pass. 

Our  scene,  from  Florence,  where  the  flower  of  art 

Was  nourished  to  the  summer  of  its  life, 

Shifts  now  to  Rome,  and  to  the  stately  town 

Where,  throned  upon  her  myriad  isles,  the  Queen 

Of  Commerce  weds  the  immemorial  sea. 

At  Parma,  now,  Correggio  toils  alone, 

And  great  Mantegna,  up  in  Mantua, 

Spreads  on  his  canvas  the  triumphant  march 

Of  Caesar.    But  these  both,  reluctantly, 

We  pass,  their  eminence  forever  safe 

From  the  marauding  years.    And  here  we  pause 

In  reverence  ere  we  speak  the  golden  names 

Of  Rafael,  Titian,  Michael  Angelo. 

[A  dance  follows,  symbolic  of  the 
entire  movement  of  the  Renaissance ; 
after  which  the  scene  changes  to 
Rome. 

[A  garden  in  Rome.  Bramante  dis 
covered  looking  over  some  plans, 
which  are  held  by  two  apprentices; 
Pope  Julius  II  with  several  car 
dinals,  and  secretaries;  also  a  num 
ber  of  artists. 

POPE  JULIUS 

Bramante,  these  are  my  desires ;  that  thou 
Shalt  straightway  plan,  tear  down,  and  build  anew 
Saint  Peter's  Church.    This  vast  design  is  none 
Too  glorious  to  house,  when  I  am  gone, 
The  tomb  that  Buonarroti  builds  for  me. 

BRAMANTE 

Your  Holiness,  to  hear  is  to  obey. 
But  for  this  tomb — it  seems  to  threaten  thee. 

POPE  JULIUS 
To  threaten  me?    What  meanest  thou? 

70 


BRAMANTE 
They  say 
That  he  who  builds  his  tomb  invites  his  death. 

POPE  JULIUS 

I  like  not  that.    For  premonitions  come, 

Sometimes,  of  words  like  those.    Build  thou 

The  Church.    The  tomb  shall  wait. 

(Enter  Rafael,  followed  by  Giulio 
Romano,  and  many  other  artists.) 

A  welcome,  Rafael.    Look — Bramante's  plan 

For  the  rebuilding  of  Saint  Peter's  Church. 

And  I  have  changed  my  mind.    Our  Angelo 

Shall  paint  the  frescoes  on  the  Sistine  walls. 

The  tomb  must  not  be  done  till  I  am  gone. 

RAFAEL 

Your  Holiness,  this  is  not  Angelo's  work. 
He  is  a  sculptor. 

POPE  JULIUS 
He  can  paint  as  well. 

RAFAEL 

He  is  a  sculptor,  in  the  heart  of  him ; 

In  this  he  doth  surpass  all  living  men, 

But  if  thou  dost  command  that  he  shall  paint 

His  art  must  suffer  change  from  thy  coercion. 

POPE  JUILUS 

I  say  that  he  shall  paint.    Thou  dost  not  fear 
The  plow  of  Buonarroti  in  thy  field. 

RAFAEL 

I  welcome  him;  and  yet  it  does  him  wrong. 

[The  Pope  turns  to  despatch  a  mes 
senger,  and  Rafael  speaks  aside  to 
Bramante. 

Bramante,  if  this  be  a  strategem 

To  bring  to  shame  a  man  I  do  not  love, 

I  will  not  have  it  so. 

BRAMANTE 
No  plot  of  mine, 
But  the  Pope's  whim. 

POPE  JULIUS 
I've  sent  for  Angelo. 

71 


RAFAEL 

Your  Holiness,  forgive  mine  open  speech, 

But  unto  every  artist  is  his  art, 

His  single  'scutcheon  in  the  war  of  time ; 

Change  thou  the  art — the  shield's  reversed — and  danger 

He  else  avoided,  strikes  him  unaware. 

I  am  not  jealous  of  this  mighty  man 

But  as  I  do  revere  his  mastership, 

I  hold  his  art  is  sacred  to  his  choice. 

POPE  JULIUS 

Let  him  serve  me  well,  and  I  will  choose 
The  clay  or  color  of  his  mastership. 
See,  now,  the  hermit  from  his  cave  comes  forth. 

RAFAEL 

The  dreamer  from  his  dream — with  blinking  eyes. 

[Enter  Michael  Angelo. 

POPE  JULIUS 

I  called  thee,  Michael  Angelo,  to  say 
The  tomb  must  wait.    When  Death  has  taken  me — 
Then  build  the  tomb.    I'll  not  invite  him  here, 
Nor  open  a  rich  chamber  to  his  gaunt 
And  fearful  presence. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
The  tomb  must  wait? 

[Enter     Vittoria     Colonna,     unob 
served. 

POPE  JULIUS 
Even  so. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Then  thou  dost  take  my  work  away, 
Out  of  my  hands.    That  leaves  me  desolate. 

POPE  JULIUS 

I  take  away  one  task  to  give  another 
Thou  shalt  adorn  the  Sistine  Chapel  walls. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

I  am  no  painter,  Holy  Father.    Give  me  work 
More  suited  to  my  heavy  hand.    The  chisel 
Is  the  tool  fits  best. 


POPE  JULIUS 

Thou  servest  me?    Indeed? 
Then  thou  shalt  do  my  will. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
There's  Rafael 

Could  spread  a  greater  glory  on  those  walls. 
I  am  a  sculptor. 

POPE  JULIUS 
Nay,  my  Angelo, 
Thou  art  far  greater  than  thy  sculpture  is. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

Father,  I  would  not  serve  thee  ill.    Nor  grace 
Nor  glozing  words  can  change  me  utterly. 

POPE  JULIUS 
[In  anger. 

Then  hear  my  mandate;  if  thou  servest  me 

Thy  task  is  mine  to  choose  and  to  appoint. 

I  will  it  so,  and  thou  shalt  bend  to  it. 

Now,  Rafael,  to  thy  works.    Lead  on.    This  man 

For  all  the  wonder  of  his  art,  is  strange. 

Sometimes  I  scarcely  understand  him. 

[Exeunt  Pope  Julius,  Rafael,  Bra- 
mante,  and  the  others,  leaving 
Michael  Angelo  and  Vittoria  Co- 
lonna. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

The  tomb  shall  wait?    And  what  of  me?    The  years 
Run  on,  and  waste,  and  nothing  comes  of  them. 
In  Rome,  in  Florence — still  the  tale's  the  same. 
The  mighty  work  must  have  majestic  stone, 
And  Princes  shift  with  every  breeze  of  fear. 

VITTORIA 

Signore,  I  have  something  heard  of  this, 
And  feeling,  as  thou  dost,  a  subtile  wrong 
Unto  thine  art,  I  think  I  understand. 
And  yet,  signore,  is  the  hope  so  pale, 
The  future  day  so  blackened  with  despair? 
The  Sistine  walls  are  thine. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Ah,  gracious  lady, 
But  to  what  end  ?    The  walls  may  stand  or  fall, 

73 


The  storm  may  wreck  them,  or  the  labouring  earth 
May  shake  them  down  to  dust.    What's  that  to  me? 
For  now  the  great  design,  the  vision  vast 
Wherein  I  held  the  centuries  in  awe, 
Must  gather  mould  amid  the  useless  years, 
And  all  the  adoration  and  the  power 
Must  waste  beneath  the  ruin  of  my  dream. 

VITTORIA 

Signore,  might  I  speak  with  thee — plain  words? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Princess,  I  am  thy  subject.    Pardon  me. 

VITTORIA 

Thou  art  a  master,  and  thy  steadfast  soul 
Holds  to  the  course  of  its  appointed  star. 
But  in  the  storm — why  shun  the  haven  light? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
There  is  no  haven  for  the  stormy  soul. 
The  rage  is  all  within. 

VITTORIA 

Nay,  then  the  haven  lies  within  as  well. 
The  urge,  the  tempest  of  thy  fiery  heart 
Must  have  its  center,  and  the  vortex  there 
Is  calm. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

Madonna,  thou  art  strangely  versed 
In  the  deep  life  that  underflows  the  being. 

VITTORIA 

Angelo,  though  I  am  not  wise,  as  men 
In  this  world  reckon  wisdom,  yet  some  gleam 
I  have  of  thee — some  light  to  see  thee  by 
As  thou  canst  never  see  thyself.    I  know 
That  thou  art  lonely ;  and  because  my  life 
Has  given  loneliness  and  surcease  therefrom 
In  blest  communion  with  a  human  love, 
I  know  thine  isolation ;  and  thy  soul 
Moves  in  its  own  too  fervent  circle,  closed 
To  the  warm  radiance  of  the  kindly  sun, 
To  lightening  laughter  and  the  rich  repose 
Of  those  who  find  a  respite  after  toil 
In  the  caressing  voice  of  one  they  love, 
Or  in  the  babbling  of  a  little  child. 

74 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 
I  have  a  wife  already,  in  this  art 
Who  kindles  me  incessantly,  and  makes 
My  world  a  home  for  me  through  loving  her. 
And  all  my  works  are  children,  and  shall  live 
A  little  while  when  I  am  gone. 

VITTORIA 

Then  if  thou  art  not  lone  nor  childless  left, 
Why  dost  thou  rail  at  princes?    Angelo, 
Thy  love  here  wears  an  unaccustomed  gown, 
Smiles  as  she  is  not  wont,  and  sings .  . 
A  song  that's  new.    But  her  deep  heart's  the  same. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Princess,  a  light  doth  break  upon  me. 

VITTORIA 
Then  am  I  content. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
I  had  not  thought — 

Mine  art  may  change  as  colors  change  in  fire, 
Yet  never  melt  away  the  metal's  form. 

VITTORIA 

A  woman  smiles,  or  frowns;  and  scarlet  wears, 
Or  grey. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
I  see  the  pictures  growing  on  the  walls. 

VITTORIA 
I  see  thee  master  of  thine  own. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

Princess, 

A  Fate  hath  written  some  unfathomed  word 
Of  thee  and  me. 

VITTORIA 

A  word  inscrutable, 
But  we  shall  read  it  yet — my  friend. 


75 


SCENE  XI 

[Titian's  garden  in  Venice. 

[Pietro  Aretino  discovered.     Enter 

Giovanni  Verdezotti. 

GIOVANNI 

Signore,  there's  a  gentleman  who  waits 
And  asks  to  see  the  master.    From  his  talk 
And  something  of  a  wildness  in  his  face, 
I  think  he  may  be  one  whom  some  deep  grief 
Hath  struck  down  in  the  heart. 

ARETINO 
And  what  of  that? 

Didst  thou  not  tell  him  that  to-day  the  master 
Leaves  Venice? 

GIOVANNI 

The  porter  told  him  this.    To  him 
The  words  were  nought.    He  looked  up  with  sad  eyes, 
And  prayed  again — one  word  with  master  Titian. 

76 


ARETINO 
Is  he  a  nobleman? 

GIOVANNI 

Of  birth,  a  Florentine,  called  Delia  Casa ; 
A  poet,  if  I  do  remember  rightly. 

ARETINO 

Titian  hath  time  to-day  for  no  such  men. 
Bid  all  the  weeping  poets  straight  begone. 
We  know  them  not. 

GIOVANNI 

The  man  doth  speak  in  tears. 
I  have  no  heart  to  bid  him  go. 

ARETINO 
Send  him 
To  me. 

GIOVANNI 

So  please  thee,  sir,  he  comes. 

[Enter  Delia  Casa. 

DELLA  CASA 
Signore, 

I  have  a  word  for  Messer  Titian's  ear ; 
Deny  me  not.    I  will  be  brief.    My  hope 
Hangs  on  his  answer. 

ARETINO 

Sir,  the  master's  time 
To-day  is  all  too  full  for  visiting. 
Defer  thy  urgent  suit  till  his  return. 

[Enter  Titian. 

DELLA  CASA 

[Going  over  to  Titian,  eagerly. 
Signore,  I  have  come,  thus,  desolate, 
To  claim  a  portrait  from  thy  wondrous  hand, 
A  picture  of  a  lady,  painted  when 
The  blessed  year  of  yesterday  was  young— 
A  portrait  of  a  lady  in  a  gown 
Of  green  and  silver.    Thou'lt  remember  it, 
Since  she  had  hair  of  that  rich  smouldering  hue 
Thou  lovest  so. 

TITIAN 
Yea,  I  remember  well. 

77 


I  painted  her  for  thee.    Thou  couldst  not  pay, 
And  so  I  kept  the  picture.    For  mine  art 
Is  not  for  every  man  to  trifle  with. 

ARETINO 

Titian,  why  dost  thou  trifle  with  it,  then? 

The  princes  of  the  world  contend  for  thee, 

And  we,  thy  friends,  and  at  the  utmost,  I 

Who  have  so  brought  thee  to  the  great  regard 

Of  even  the  Emperor,  are  put  to  blush 

By  whims  like  this — to  paint  this  fellow's  dame 

And  have  about  thy  gate  these  starveling  men, 

Scholars  and  poets  who  can  build  for  thee 

No  favor,  nor  can  even  celebrate 

In  worthy  fashion,  thy  majestic  fame. 

TITIAN. 
How,  now,  Pietro.    Why  so  hard  with  him? 

ARETINO 

Titian,  my  friend,  to-day  the  Cardinal 
Will  come.    I've  told  him,  times  and  oft, 
That  thou  dost  work  for  princes.    Lo !  he  comes 
And  finds  thee  painting  for  this  scarecrow  here. 
That  shames  me.    Titian,  bid  the  fellow  go. 

TITIAN 

[To  Delia  Casa. 

I  had  forgot.    The  Cardinal  Farnese  comes, 
And  many  others,  and  the  proudest  heads 
Of  Venice  will  be  here.    Thou'rt  right, 
Pietro  mine.    The  picture  stays  with  me. 
Farewell. 

BELLA  CASA 
I  pray  thee,  master— 

ARETINO 
Bid  him  go. 
The  Cardinal  comes. 

BELLA  CASA 
Nay,  Titian,  hear  me  out. 

ARETINO 

Why  dost  thou  pause  ?    By  all  the  heathen  gods 
I  see  not  why  this  matter  rose  at  all. 

78 


TITIAN 
I  see — it  was  the  smouldering  hair. 

[Enter  Cardinal  Farnese. 
A  greeting  to  your  Eminence.    My  friend, 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

CARDINAL  FARNESE 
Honored  Titian, 

This  is  a  fortunate  day.    His  Holiness 
Hath  cause  for  gladness,  when  thou  dost  set  forth 
For  Rome. 

BELLA  CASA 
Titian,  if  in  thy  heart  a  spark 
Of  mercy  or  of  charity  hath  place 
Thou  wilt  not  drive  me  off.    It  can  not  be 
Thou  hast  forgot  her  mortal  loveliness, 
The  picture  now  is  all  that's  left  to  me. 
I  could  not  pay  thee,  and  I  can  not  now. 
But  since  the  darkness  of  my  destiny 
Closed  in  about  me,  that  one  shining  shape 
Alone  can  draw  my  spirit  back  from  hell; 
Since  she  I  loved,  with  all  the  red-gold  hair 
About  her  marble  face  with  the  closed  eyes, 
Is  gone  out  of  the  sunlight,  unto  death. 

TITIAN 
The  lady  thou  didst  love  is  dead? 

BELLA  CASA 
Even  so. 

[Enter  the  Buke  of  Mantua,  with 
his  train. 

TITIAN 

Pietro,  wouldst  thou  have  me  lightly  shun 
A  heart  that  bleeds,  for  some  few  strokes  cf  paint? 
iTour  Grace,  and  Monsignore,  and  my  friends. 
This  gentleman  commands  me.    Once,  it  seems, 
I  served  him.    You  will  pardon  me,  Signore, 
The  picture  shall  be  thine.    Gian,  be  swift. 

[He  takes  Bella  Casa  by  the  hand, 
and  goes  aside  with  him,  giving  di 
rections  to  Giovanni,  who  goes  out. 


ARETINO 

[To  the  Duke  and  the  Cardinal. 
Our  Titian  is  a  wayward  gentleman ; 
Here's  metal  for  the  poet's  fire :  he  gives 
To  this  poor  fellow  who  hath  lost  his  love 
A  canvas  that  the  Signory  of  Venice 
Hath  nought  to  equal. 

TITIAN 

Friends,  and  noble  sirs, 
I  bid  you  welcome.    Thus  you  honour  me 
Too  greatly  for  a  painter  in  a  world 
That  hath  so  many  traffics,  governments, 
Wars  and  divisions.    Humbly  I  welcome  you. 

CARDINAL  FARNESE 
And  I,  by  express  order  of  His  Holiness, 
Here  offer  thee  felicitations.    Glad 
Is  the  day  when  thou  dost  honour  stately  Rome 
With  thy  rich  presence,  Titian. 

DUKE  OF  MANTUA 
And  I,  Federigo  de  Gonzaga, 

Of  Mantua,  bring  thee  greetings.  When  thy  stay. 
In  Rome  is  done,  Mantua  waits  thee,  and  her  bells 
Shall  swing  with  joy  when  thou  dost  come  to  her. 

TITIAN 

There  are  too  many  years  upon  my  head; 
My  lord,  I  fear  me  I  shall  never  hear 
The  bells  that  swing  amid  the  towers  of  Mantua. 

[Enter  the  Duke  of  Ferrara. 

DUKE  OF  MANTUA 
Still,  by  the  invitation  I  do  honour, 
And  if  a  holy  office  call  thee  otherwhere, 
We  must  be  content. 

TITIAN 

Your  Grace's  coming 
Doth  make  a  holiday  of  my  departure. 

DUKE  OF  FERRARA 
I  bring  thee,  Titian,  messages  and  words 
Of  greeting  from  my  friend  and  sovran  liege 
King  Francis,  in  whose  lofty  favour  thou 
Art  throned  above  all  painters.    For  myself, 


I  do  rejoice  thy  long  and  glorious  life 
Hath  passed  so  lightly  over  thee,  that  now 
When  many  of  thy  youthful  friends  are  gone, 
Thou  still  dost  thrive  in  lusty  livelihood. 

TITIAN 

I  thank  thee ;  yet  thy  kindliest  words 
Strike  me  with  sorrow.     There  was  one  I  knew, 
A  friend,  Giorgione  was  his  name ;  if  he 
Instead  of  I  had  been  thus  spared  to  life, 
How  great  a  blessing  it  had  been  to  art — 
Aye,  and  to  Italy. 

CARDINAL  FARNESE 
Titian,  have  done 

With  these  black  thoughts.    For  know  that  to  thy  soul 
Death  welded  his  sweet  spirit  when  the  scythe 
Did  cut  him  down. 

[Enter  Don  Diego  de  Mendoza; 
Titian  kneels  to  the  Imperial  ban 
ner. 

MENDOZA 
Titian,  I  humbly  bring 

Thee  greetings  from  my  sovran  lord;  and  he, 
My  master,  who  doth  hold  his  sway  and  pomp 
Over  the  Holy  Empire  of  the  Cross, 
O'er  Germany  and  Spain  and  the  Low  Lands, 
And  the  far  North,  and  all  the  Provinces 
That  rim  the  Christian  world  against  the  night, 
Doth  pray  that  this  thy  journey  unto  Rome 
May  bring  thee  honours  equal  to  thy  worth. 
And  that  thou  still  mayst  conquer  by  thine  art 
The  ancient  city  of  the  Triple  Crown. 

TITIAN 

My  lord,  Embassador  of  Caesar,  I  entreat 

But  this,  that  I  may  serve  the  Emperor, 

And  die  when  I  can  please  his  heart  no  longer. 

[Enter  the  Doge  of  Venice. 

THE  DOGE 

Titian.    The  Senate  and  the  Signory 

Of  Venice  send  thee  greetings  and  decree. 

That  to  the  borders  of  our  high  authority 

All  men  shall  serve  thy  journey,  and  make  safe 

81 


Thy  going  and  thy  swift  return.    In  thee, 
His  Holiness  doth  honour  Venice. 

TITIAN 

My  lord, 

I  thank  thee,  and  in  this  regard  set  forth 

As  ever  I  have  done;  whatever  the  world 

May  offer  to  mine  eyes — here  is  my  home. 

[Enter  Paolo,  Veronese  and  Tinto 
retto. 

And  these  my  friends,  though  younger  in  their  skill, 

Will  yet,  while  I  am  gone,  make  beautiful 

This  city  of  my  dreams.    Paolo,  thy  hand 

Jacopo,  thine ;  Princes,  these  are  the  peers 

Of  mine  estate. 

TINTORETTO 

Ser  Titian,  if  unworthy  pride 
Speak  in  me,  pardon  it,  but  this  I  hope, 
That  where  the  Roman  painters,  men  of  worth, 
Discuss  the  might  of  this  our  glorious  art, 
Thou  wilt  uphold  our  Venice  to  them  all. 

PAOLO 

And  tell  them,  too,  that  while  their  fading  light 
Goes  down,  in  Venice  we  look  forward  still. 

CARDINAL  FARNESE 
Now  must  we  all  set  forth,  and  as  we  ride 
And  the  long  journey  through  the  weary  days 
Doth  settle  on  our  spirits,  know  you  this: 
In  every  little  chapel  in  the  hills, 
And  every  echoing  nave  of  holy  Rome, 
Some  faithful  soul  doth  pray  for  Titian's  journey, 
And  doth  entreat  for  him  the  care  of  Heaven. 
Fair  days  abroad,  and  prosperous  return. 

[The  procession  goes  out. 

DELLA  CASA 

And  one  he  leaves  behind  shall  pray  as  well, 
While  life  remains,  and  in  his  humble  song 
Shall  glorify  this  generous  soul.    For  me, 
The  echo  of  a  love  around  my  heart,  and  praise 
For  Titian — These  are  all  of  life. 

[Lights  Out. 


SCENE  XII 

[Titian,  Vasari  and  Michael  Angelo 
Discovered. 


TITIAN 

Signore,  since  I  came  to  Rome,  I  feel 
A  tremor  at  the  core ;  my  courage  fails, 
Where  everything  is  old — so  old,  it  seems, 
I  am  too  young  for  wisdom.    Yet  my  years 
Do  weigh  upon  me. 

VASARI 

Messer  Titian  yearns 
For  Venice.    Master,  thou  must  comfort  him. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Leave  us,  Vasari.    For  between  us  twain 
There  is  a  thing  that  must  be  spoken  out 
And  no  man  know  of  it. 

[Exit  Vasari. 

TITIAN 

Thine  art  and  mine 
Are  each  to  each  opposed  as  the  poles, 
Yet  thou  dost  praise  my  pictures.    What  of  this? 
I  cannot  find,  in  the  sun's  golden  light, 
In  the  rich  colour  of  Dame  Nature's  robe 
The  elements  of  thy  supremacy. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Nor  I  the  glow  and  glamour  of  thy  sight. 

TITIAN 
So  we  have  failed — both  failed? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Nay,  we  have  wrought 

Each  by  his  light,  and  each  has  found  his  truth, 
Not  both  the  same.    But  when  we  two  go  down 
Into  the  night,  the  lamp  of  art  shall  fall, 
And  men  must  grope  for  beauty  by  the  faint 
And  pale  reflection  of  a  vanished  flame, 
As  in  the  wakening  of  Italy 
They  strove  to  catch  the  buried  gleam  of  Greece. 

TITIAN 

In  Venice  there  is  still  a  day  to  come 
And  men  shall  carry  on  the  torch. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 
Not  long 
It  burns  after  thy  passing. 

TITIAN 
Then  with  us 

The  glory  dies.    And  still  for  me  the  doubt — 
Which  is  the  truth,  the  sovran  truth.    Thou  art 
A  poet,  and  thou  buildest  lofty  rhyme ; 
Thou  art  a  painter,  and  the  majesty 
Of  Christ  in  Judgment  o'er  embattled  hells 
Is  in  thy  ranging  message;  thou  art  one 
To  whom  the  rearing  of  eternal  domes 

84 


Is  like  the  blowing  of  a  bubble  in 

The  silent  air;  and  marble  to  thy  hand, 

As  to  its  lord,  yields  virgin  ecstacies. 

As  thou  art  wise,  I  pray  thee  shrive  my  doubt, 

And  set  at  rest  the  shaking  of  my  soul. 

Thou  knowest  all  these  arts.    Which  one  is  Truth? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

These  are  not  Art. 

These  are  the  shadowy  shapes  of  her,  the  moods 

She  masks  in.    Art — I  know  of  but  one  Art. 

[The  light  comes  on,  and  the  Herald 
enters,  leading  a  processional  of  all 
the  characters  of  the  Pageant,  in  re 
versed  chronological  order. 


MCM 
VII 


ALDERBRINK  PRESS 
CHICAGO 


UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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